The Journey
by redroseofblue
Summary: After 6 long years, Sandor Clegane finds himself once more returning to the gates of Winterfell, this time serving a different ruler as a different man. There he finds the girl he'd once called a little bird, who no longer fits the namesake. Grown strong and proud, yet somehow even more lovely, Sansa captivates the Hound once more as he struggles to right his wrongs. Post season 7.
1. Chapter 1

**A little introduction from the author:**

 **This fic is going to be based on both the books and the show, mostly just because the books haven't progressed to the point of the show. All of Sandor and Sansa's previous interactions will be based on the books, however I'm going with the show on Sansa's experience with Ramsay, just because it is crucial to her character currently in the show. Sansa's ruminations and thoughts from her time in the Vale are obviously book related, however we are pretending that instead of potentially marrying Harry the Heir as we left Sansa (Alayne) off in the books, it will be Ramsay instead, and that's how we'll join her storyline back up with the show. Also, her age is how I imagine it to be in the show now somewhere in her late teens.**

 **As for Sandor, I am going with the books partially in his description, but since I can't remove Rory's image from the last season of GOT from my head, he will not have lanky black hair. Lol, a little point, but I do love Rory's representation of him. Also I absolutely hated that the show had Sandor and Brienne fighting, leaving him at death's door, so I'm going with the book version for that. However, since in the show they've obviously met before, we'll just pretend he met her and Arya wouldn't go with her and blah blah WITHOUT the bit about Brienne fighting him.**

 **As always, thank you SO much for reading, favoriting, reviewing, etc. I love to hear your thoughts and look forward to another fun writing experience with my favorite couple! Without further ado, here is chapter 1.**

* * *

Chapter 1

 ** _Expectancy_**

-Sandor-

Winterfell.

Six long years had passed since he'd last seen the castle's granite towers rising out of the snow-white plains of the Northern moors. Sandor Clegane's stormy gray eyes squinted through gusts of snow to behold the distant fortress, noting how the aged stone contrasted strangely with the fresh timber of the newly rebuilt portions of the ancient stronghold. If the histories told it true, Winterfell was nearly as old as winter itself, and it seemed absurd to believe that mere fire could even come close to extinguishing the magnificence and solemn grandeur of the great seat of the Starks. Truly, excepting the fresh color of the new construction, one could scarcely distinguish that the castle had been so recently set to the torch.

Sandor silently mocked those who'd proclaimed Winterfell's demise, those who'd lamented the fall of the castle after the bloody Kraken's son, craven that he was, set it aflame. Fire consumes, yet what it cannot destroy, it only makes stronger and harder—was he not himself living proof of this? Half of his face was given over to the grotesque scarring which only fire can leave upon a man's flesh, and though the flame had left him permanently disfigured, he was certainly one of the strongest and hardest men in all of Westeros. No, just as it would take much more than fire or a burning fever to kill _him_ , it would take much, much more than a blaze to bring Winterfell to ruin. For that matter, it seemed it would take more than a pack of Lions to bring the Starks themselves to their end, as more of their supposed dead seemed to be reappearing in Westeros at each new report, stronger than ever.

Sandor's breath billowed around the frost-crusted whiskers on his jaw, adding its haze to the swirling white atmosphere of this frozen afternoon while he ironically pondered the nature of fire. The saddle creaked beneath his weight as he shifted in his seat, cursing under his breath and mentally steeling himself for the final leg of this buggering journey North.

Six long years ago he'd made the same ride—from the capital rather than White Harbor—yet the only thing that seemed to have not changed since then was his ugly face. He'd been a different man then, serving a different purpose, and a different king. _How_ different a man he was now was still a thought that gave Sandor pause. Though he was still coarse and crude as he'd always been, and he had no qualms dealing justice with his own hands when it was needed, he couldn't help admitting to himself that he no longer _relished_ killing quite as he used to. His time spent with Septon Ray and his followers, healing from his life-threatening wounds and feeling a semblance of peace for the first time in his life had left him craving a simpler way of life. Though recent events had brought violence once again into his life, the bloody talons of revenge taking hold of him once more and forcing a weapon into his hands, he still held a small hope that after the impending battle for the dawn was fought and won, he could truly be left at peace. _Mayhaps I'll become a farmer. I'm too bloody old for this shit._

Sandor grunted his discomfort as he fixed his gaze upon the distant prospect, noting that even the landscape seemed less welcoming now, the cold deeper and more penetrating; it was true winter. His entire world had changed so drastically since he'd last seen Winterfell that it was now hardly recognizable. And the dragon which passed overhead in the next moment, filling the horizon with its leathery black wings and bone-chilling shriek only served to punctuate his thoughts—every fucking thing about the world in which he lived had changed during those six long years.

The approaching footfalls of a mount matching pace with his courser drew his attention from the skies, and before he could make out the rider through the haze of swirling snow, Brienne's crisp voice edged through the silence that usually surrounded Sandor Clegane.

"Are you nervous to see her again, Clegane?" The huge woman didn't distinguish which 'her' she was referring to, yet there'd only been one lady whom she'd recently been interjecting into her conversations with him.

Sandor snorted and resituated the reins in his leather gloves, trying to compensate for the loss of feeling in his extremities and pulling his cloak tighter against the relentless Northern winds.

"Not nervous," he grunted. Brienne's attempts to befriend him since the parley in the capital made him somewhat uncomfortable, friendly banter having never been his strong suit. Apparently their mutual experience with the Stark bitch had given Brienne a sort of common ground with him which she used to justify her constant barrages into his sullen, solitary existence. He wished she'd bugger off.

"You'll be very proud of her, I think," Brienne continued, either oblivious or uncaring of the cold reception given her by the hulking, scarred man riding beside her. "Impressive is, I think, the best word to describe Arya."

The proud grin which spread across her face did little to improve her masculine features, instead drawing attention to the freckles on her cheeks and her broad nose, both chapped and pink from the prolonged exposure to the elements.

Sandor scowled. "Aye, it's impressive she's still alive, I'll give her that."He turned his head and spat in the opposite direction.

"Dancing," he snorted again and allowed a mocking grin onto his countenance, the scarred half of his face twisting unnaturally as he did. The girl must have improved her skills if she'd made it to Essos and back alive, and a tiny shade of something that could be called pride passed through his chest. It was short-lived, however, and quickly extinguished in favor of his familiar cynicism as he remembered his name on her little kill-list, and how she'd left him to die of fever.

"The wolf-bitch's dancing doesn't interest me half as much as getting off this fucking horse and thawing my frozen arse. The only thing I care about within the walls of that castle is the hot water they've piped through them."

He rasped the last sentence with finality and kicked his horse to a trot, leaving the annoyance of conversation behind him. He'd already been forced to endure a ship's voyage from the capital to White Harbor and then the entire road to Winterfell with far more socialization than he cared for. In the final hour of their journey he wanted no company but the familiar pessimism of his own bitter thoughts.

The cold which penetrated through every piece of clothing he wore did little to keep his mind off the gnawing sense of dread in his stomach at having to face one of the demons that had haunted him for years. Brienne had been right, though she'd fixated on the wrong Stark girl. If he was honest with himself, which he took great pride in supposing he was, there was no skirting the truth that he _was_ nervous to see her again. He'd have to face her after what he'd done to her the night the Blackwater burned.

Sandor's jaw worked soundlessly as he tossed the unpleasant thought around in his mind for perhaps the hundredth time. He would have to stand before her and see the disgust and anger in her eyes as she judged him for his behavior toward her. Every step he drew nearer the castle only brought him closer to facing a shame that he now felt more acutely than ever. To complicate matters, though no one knew what had happened that night save the two of them—as far as he believed, at least—Sandor couldn't help but wonder what would become of him if Sansa Stark decided to divulge his behavior from that night to her bastard brother.

He chewed the inside of his lip as he almost subconsciously slowed the pace of his mount, more willing to face the piercing cold than her piercing blue eyes. Sandor had come to know many regrets in his life during the past years, though he seldom dwelt on them, but pinning a young girl to her bed, knife to her throat, while covered in blood and bile, and forcing her to sing for her life was one of his greatest. She hadn't deserved that, yet he'd done it anyway, wasted dog that he was. If Sansa demanded his life be forfeit for what he'd done to her, well it wasn't more than he deserved. Hadn't he always maintained that if the gods _were_ just, he'd surely not be alive?

Despite his misgivings the sound corner of his mind that spoke in logic and reason, devoid of the complications of emotion, told him that it was highly unlikely that Jon would execute a seasoned fighter in the current state of affairs. The world was going to shit just now, with death marching on the Wall, and Jon had bigger concerns than a rogue soldier who'd once frightened his sister with empty threats. Jon himself had alluded recently to the great misfortune that Sansa had faced with her most recent marriage, and Sandor's drunken behavior to her hardly seemed to hold a candle next to whatever she'd endured from the latest prick. He hadn't truly hurt her that night, he reasoned, though he winced inwardly at his own mental justification. After all, sometimes the worst kind of scars were not made by the wounds of the flesh.

He _would_ find a way to make amends for it, if for no other reason than to give rest to his own sense of shame. He had half-heartedly resolved to do so years ago, if fate had ever brought them together again. If she'd ever escaped the claws of the Lions and the Mockingbird, and if he'd ever found himself in the service of the great lords and kings of Westeros again.

And here it seemed that fate had done just that, he mused, as the walls of Winterfell loomed larger before his approach, seeming to mirror the growing sense of dread in his stomach as he must soon face her again and swallow his pride to make amends for that night. He could only hope that she'd believe and accept his sincerity, calling to mind the words he'd spoken to her in what seemed now like another lifetime:

 _"A dog will die for you, but never lie to you."_

-Sansa-

Jon had finally returned. He'd been gone for months, leaving the massive job of Northern rule to her, inexperienced and anxious though she was. She'd planned and strategized, had counseled and directed, had judged and executed, yet though her bannermen looked to her for leadership, she sometimes felt as if they were foolish to put their trust in her. Despite her hardened exterior, the protective armor she'd built little by little after each of the betrayals and heartbreaks that her short life had inflicted upon her, there was still so much uncertainty and weakness that Sansa saw in herself. She'd done her best to portray strength and the fortitude that Northerners would expect from their leader, yet she couldn't help breathing a sigh of relief now that Jon was returning to take the weight of rule from her shoulders, and the faintest hint of a smile crept to her pink, wind-bitten cheeks as she observed the oncoming army from the battlements.

The masses of men and beasts approaching her castle stretched as far as the driving snow would allow her to see on this wintry afternoon, and the fact that they were all there to help defend Winterfell against the horrors marching on the Wall filled her with a sense of hope she'd not felt in a very long time.

Arya stood at her right hand, her dark hair drawn back in the style of their father, hands clasped behind her back with an expression on her face that was impossible to read. Another smile tugged at the corner of Sansa's mouth as she beheld her younger sister, dressed for warfare with a blade on each hip rather than as would befit a great lady. But Sansa had long been used to this from her sister, and it was not what prompted the gentle, almost teasing expression to settle on her face.

"Are you excited to see him again, Arya?" Sansa posed, glancing down at her younger sister briefly before returning her gaze to the scene before them, searching absently for their brother within the ranks of the approaching army.

Arya raised a brow, but did not otherwise move. "Excited," she mused, as if trying to settle on whether the word was right or not. "I can't remember the last time I felt excited about anything, Sansa." Arya's dark little eyes met hers momentarily and there was almost a sadness written in the solemnity there.

Sansa pushed the melancholy away; the Stark's lives were full of it, but now was not the time to dwell on unhappy thoughts.

"But you're his _favorite_ sister," Sansa teased, eyes rolling good-naturedly as she drawled out the word, bumping shoulders with her sibling playfully.

Arya allowed a smile then, a true, genuine Arya smile that reached her eyes and made them look _almost_ as they had before she'd become _no one._

"That's not saying much, Sansa, considering _you_ were my only competition, and I believe you would have preferred Hodor as a brother than Jon when we were children."

Sansa smiled too at the playful reminder of how unfairly she'd treated their bastard brother once.

"All right, I suppose I walked right into that one." She chuckled lightly before continuing, "but I know Jon is going to be very happy to s—"

Both of the young women and the guards accompanying them jolted visibly before doubling over, shouting startled curses as a deafening roar split the air above them, followed almost immediately by the heart-stopping visual of a full grown, flesh and blood _dragon_ sweeping over their heads.

"Mother have mercy!" Sansa uttered, her knuckles white and desperately clutching Arya's arm beside her as she crouched and instinctively covered her head. Her stomach was roiling from the shock, and she gasped for breath, feeling winded and ill.

Conversely, Arya, after the initial surprise, was springing back to her full height, stretching out over the battlements, and craning her neck to see where the beast had disappeared.

"By the gods!" she breathed, a rapt and awestruck face turning back to Sansa as she took both her sister's shoulders within her grasp. "It's huge!"

Sansa nodded and struggled to keep her composure, reminding herself quickly that there were _two_ of those beasts and mentally steeling herself lest another appearance catch her off guard. Her heart was still racing, the adrenaline coursing through her body from the supernatural experience, yet she willed herself to be calm.

"Let's"—she cleared her throat sharply, "let's go greet Jon and the dragon queen in the courtyard, Arya." She was relieved to have a valid excuse to immediately retreat from their open and exposed position atop the castle walls, and Sansa turned about quickly, silently hoping that no one had noticed the tremor in her voice.

Arya fairly bounded down the steps as she took the lead—if she'd not been certain of her excitement before, the dragon's appearance had undoubtedly piqued it—and Sansa had to struggle to keep up.

"Hallyn," she called over her shoulder to the captain of her household guards, while taking care to grip the handrail tightly as she descended the rough steps, "see that Bran is escorted to the courtyard to greet our King and his noble guest."

"At once, my lady." Sansa heard the commander passing the order along, yet her attention was already fully devoted to the thrill of seeing her brother again, meeting the long-awaited Daenerys Targaryen and—she swallowed in apprehension—seeing her dragons.

* * *

"Open the gates!"

The cry rose from within the courtyard, and was repeated several more times as it made its way up to the hands manning the winch. Sansa's heart pounded in her chest as she stood up to her full height, chin high and poised, while releasing a steady stream of breath from between pursed lips in an attempt to calm her nerves. Arya stood directly to her right and Bran in his wheeled chair was beyond her.

The brother in black, Samwell Tarly, who had come to Winterfell from the Citadel along with the wildling woman and her babe, was positioned behind Bran's chair, having wheeled it out himself. He seemed nervous, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold, yet Sansa quickly reminded herself that Sam always seemed nervous and therefore it was not particularly unusual. The man of the Night's Watch spent a great deal of time with Bran which secretly relieved Sansa—it was difficult to relate to the person that Bran had become in his absence from Winterfell and conversing with him now was both awkward and uncomfortable, yet she was loathe to leave him alone. Sam provided company which seemed to be both acceptable and welcome to both, a great relief to Sansa, and she had been very pleased that he'd chosen to stay on.

The gates were now fully opened to their guests and the procession of riders began streaming inside the walls of her castle, banners and chins held high.

Sansa spotted her family's own direwolf, gray on a field of white, bouncing alongside the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. _Ice and fire,_ she mused, before her eyes fell upon Jon and she beamed at him, filled with relief at his return home.

The three remaining Starks of Winterfell, as custom dictated, stood solemnly to greet their bastard brother, proclaimed King in the North by his own men, as well as the new object of his alliance, Daenerys Targaryen. The formality of the ceremony brought Sansa's mind back to another time long ago when her family had gathered in the courtyard to greet a different king as he entered their home.

 _I was such a child then,_ she mused as her eyes fell upon the golden white hair of the woman who must be the dragon queen, riding on a silver mare next to Jon. _I'd only had eyes for my prince._ Sansa observed Jon while he dismounted and then turned about to lend a hand to the Queen as she slid gracefully from her saddle. _I was a stupid, silly girl when I stood here the last time, greeting a king._

Her eyes moved to rest on a large and imposing figure trotting into the yard, spurring further recollections of that time long past. _I remember how frightened I was of the Hound, then._

Sansa almost smiled to herself before the man's gaze turned about suddenly to rest on her, causing her heart to fly up into her throat as she realized with a ragged gasp that it _was_ truly the Hound! A wave of gooseflesh passed over her skin and Sansa clutched her skirts with both hands in an attempt to ground herself.

 _Gods, no that's impossible!_

He was meeting her gaze boldly, cloak pulled tight against the cold, his beard much longer than it had been when last she saw him, yet there was no other man in Westeros who could be mistaken for the Hound.

 _Arya said he was dead! Everyone…everyone said he was dead!_

Sansa felt as if her head was spinning, but a familiar voice pulled her back to the present and she blinked quickly, breaking the dreamlike trance she'd found herself in. Jon was approaching her on foot, the Queen just a step behind him. She fought to regain her ease, pushing the unsettling reappearance of the Hound to the back of her mind as she donned an appropriate expression with which to greet their new ally and represent Northern leadership.

Propriety dictated that the Queen be introduced before any other greetings, though Sansa saw Jon's eyes graze over his two lost siblings with ill-concealed emotion.

"Lady Stark," Jon began, meeting Sansa's eyes with a tenderness that spoke of his relief in being home once more. "May I present to you Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, and rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms." His hand gestured in the direction of the young and beautiful woman by his side and Sansa immediately sank to one knee, followed in her movements by the entire castle.

"Your grace," Sansa murmured, her head bowing briefly before raising her gaze to meet the violet eyes of her new liege. "You are very welcome here."

All of the questions and hesitations which her lords bannermen had presented to her in the last months in regards to this alliance went racing through Sansa's mind as she resumed her standing position and clasped her hands in front of her. It would not do to dwell on these concerns now, lest the woman sense some mistrust from her, and Sansa forced the concerns from her mind.

"Winterfell is at your disposal. We are most honored to host you in the North."

The dragon queen smiled and drew a step toward her, surprising Sansa by taking her hands in her own.

"Lady Stark, your brother has told me much of your unfailing strength and invaluable leadership for his people." She squeezed Sansa's hand, "Your people, and now also my people. You have my gratitude for securing our welcome in the North."

Sansa tried her best to conceal how taken aback she felt by the openness she found in Daenerys' manner. It was so unlike the subtleties of the nobles and the people at court in King's Landing that, despite herself, she found herself immediately drawn to the young queen. Sansa dismissed Daenerys' praise courteously, and when in the next moment she'd caught Jon's eye, she could see the pleasure written there at the friendliness of their exchange. He smiled almost imperceptibly before turning his attention to Arya.

"Your Grace, this is the Lady Arya—," his introduction was interrupted by the small arms which were thrown around his neck violently, her dark head buried in the crook of his neck. Jon recovered quickly from the sudden reaction, his forehead wrinkling with emotion as his arms engulfed his younger sister in a fierce embrace. Never one to show much respect for custom, Arya wasn't about to wait for long and proper introductions—she hadn't seen Jon since he'd left for the Wall so long ago and beholding him before her in truth, real and alive, after everything they'd both lived through was simply too much to bear.

Sansa felt the tears pearling in the corners of her eyes at witnessing the reunion, touched to her core at Arya's shameless and uncharacteristic display of emotion. Her sister, for the first time in as long as Sansa could remember, was crying.

Arya's lithe, tanned fingers, usually employed in deftly clenching the hilt of a blade, were now clinging to the fur of Jon's cloak as tenaciously as a child would cling to its father, her small body shaking in his arms. He was murmuring something into her ear as he stroked her back gently, both completely lost to the world around them and uncaring of the hundreds of eyes upon them.

Sansa glanced briefly at the Queen, curious as to how she would react to the impropriety of her siblings' ill-timed embrace. The young woman, rather than appearing affronted or annoyed, looked to be truly affected by the candid reunion, her eyes softening as they rested on Jon. Sansa thought there was a shade of affection in them, though she couldn't be sure.

After several long moments of embrace, Arya used Jon's cloak discreetly to wipe the tears from her eyes before suddenly drawing back from him all at once, the expression on her face instantly reverted to its usual solemnity. As if the lapse had never occurred, Arya turned slightly to the Queen and inclined her head. "Your grace." A small, forced smile settled on her flushed cheeks.

Daenerys nodded her head delicately in return, and moved to the final Stark presented to her. She didn't wait for Jon this time, a knowing smile spreading across her face as she addressed the young man seated in the wheeled chair. "And you must be Bran."

As Jon made introductions and reunited with his youngest living brother, Sansa chanced another glance toward the Hound. He'd dismounted by now, and was standing off to one side, near Brienne and Pod and—Sansa gasped in surprise once more— _Lord Varys and Tyrion!_ _By the Seven, how have they all come to be here at once? Together?_ The group of unlikely companions were now approaching and Sansa quickly averted her eyes, pretending to not have noticed.

Daenerys had returned to stand before Sansa, extending her arm out as the others joined the party.

"Lady Stark, I believe you are already acquainted with my Hand, Lord Tyrion."

A myriad of emotions tore through Sansa as the small man who'd once been her husband waddled toward her, taking her hand and drawing it to his lips. Though not repulsed by him—he'd always been kind to her after all—Sansa was far from being at ease in his presence and her courtesies felt more forced than ever.

"My dear Sansa," the dwarf said, squeezing her hand lightly, "it pleases me greatly to see you returned to your home and family."

His characteristic sincerity was there, and nothing in his look seemed to reveal any resentment he might have harbored toward her for disappearing so completely after Joffrey's murder. Sansa gave him a gratifying smile, as smooth as ice which revealed none of her true feelings. She inclined her head next to Lord Varys as Daenerys presented him, and other members of her court, though Sansa was finding it increasingly difficult to focus on introductions as she became acutely aware of the Hound slowly approaching her.

Before she could even begin to predict how their reunion would play out, Arya exploded beside her. "Seven hells! _You're_ still alive?" Her sister advanced until she was standing just before Sandor Clegane, looking—despite all of her weapons and warrior's garb—like a child next to the giant of a man.

The Hound snorted down at her, a cynical grin twisting his features.

"Aye, I'm alive, and no thanks to you, she-wolf, but I'm a tough bugger to kill."

Though he was as harsh and coarse as ever, Sansa thought there was no real resentment in his tone. She'd seen the Hound consumed with rage on many occasions, seething hatred, and none of those all too familiar signs were noticeable in his demeanor or voice as he spoke to Arya now. If Sansa didn't know better, she could almost believe there was an underlying affection, if that was even possible for a man like the Hound.

Arya stared at Clegane silently for several long moments, her face betraying no sign of what she might have felt about seeing him again after believing him to be dead for years. Then she cracked a half-smile and drew her hands behind her back.

"You and me both, it seems."

Something that might have been closure seemed to pass between them in the silence that followed and Sansa found herself suddenly curious to know more of what they had endured in their long months together in the Riverlands.

After a moment, Arya's eyes flicked sideways to Sansa, a wicked glint appearing in them, much like when they'd been children and Arya was planning some new mischief.

"I believe you remember my _pretty_ sister, Lady Sansa?" Arya extended an arm toward her innocently, and Sansa felt all the mortification and ire at being placed in such an awkward position roll over her.

 _I'm going to kill her,_ Sansa thought, though she hadn't the time to process her frustration fully, for the Hound turned his attention to her now after throwing a deathly glare at Arya.

"Aye, I remember the _little bird_ ," he rasped her nickname just as he always had, voice rough and raw like steel grinding on stone as he took a step toward her, inclining his head respectfully. "Lady Stark," he ground his teeth as he looked down at her, and for a flash Sansa thought that he seemed ill at ease, which was something she'd almost never seen in Sandor Clegane in the capital. "The bird who finally flew home."

Sansa couldn't remember the last time she'd felt such an array of confusing emotions. She was furious at Arya, disconcerted by the Hound, and frustrated with herself for being so weak to even be affected by a man so utterly unconnected to her. She resolved to allow no hint of her inner turmoil to be observed by her companions and, drawing up to her full height she held her chin parallel to the ground and voided her expression.

"Clegane," she acknowledged, hardly deigning to tilt her head in greeting. Her resolution to be cool toward him was made that much easier as the memory of the last time she'd seen his face washed over her. Flashing gray eyes lighting almost green in the unearthly glow of wildfire. A knife to her throat. His weight pinning her to the bed. Real, visceral fear. This man had been harsh and cruel and terrifying.

 _But there were tears, you remember._

Sansa pushed that detail from her mind, determined to remain unmoved. She was no longer a scared girl trapped in the South. She was in her home, a great ruler in the North, and she would make sure he regretted how he'd behaved toward her then. She was _not_ his to frighten and terrorize anymore.

"I may have been a _little bird_ the last time I saw you, however, much has changed since then. I know not under what circumstance you came to ride with my brother and his men, but as he's welcomed you I have no choice but to do the same until I've spoken with him."

Satisfaction rushed over Sansa, accompanied much to her annoyance by a small twinge of guilt, when his countenance changed slightly. An uncharacteristic nervousness crept in behind his normally unwavering steel gray eyes.

 _Good_.

"You will excuse me, _Ser,_ " she intentionally threw in the title, knowing exactly how it would make him feel. "I have much to discuss with my brother and the Queen." She lifted her brows as a gesture of departure and turned abruptly from him, though not missing the opportunity to glare her displeasure at her younger sister.

 _After all of these years, still SUCH a pain._

* * *

 **Let me know how you feel about this return to writing Sansan fiction, your reviews are much appreciated! So excited to be back writing!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**

 **If you haven't read the books, I highly recommend searching for a summary of at least the moment when Sandor goes to Sansa's room during the Battle of the Blackwater. The book version is quite different from the show and is, in my opinion, pretty vital to Sansa's duality in this chapter.**

* * *

Chapter 2

 _ **Uncertainty**_

-Sandor-

So this was Sansa bloody Stark now.

The muscles of Sandor's jaw flexed as he watched her glide elegantly away from him, uncertain of how to interpret her cold reception.

When he'd first laid eyes on her in the courtyard, the bright copper of her hair reflecting the winter sun in the most captivating way, she'd felt his gaze and returned it. The color had drained from her face, and despite her best efforts to remain composed and dignified ( _how very like her),_ Sandor had always been able to see through Sansa, and it was apparent that she'd been unnerved. Surprise and _something_ else had passed over her features at seeing his twisted face again, yet all had gone sour from the moment that bloody she-wolf had used his feverish description of Sansa, which had apparently been enough to turn the new Lady of Winterfell into ice.

 _Either that or she's never forgiven you for the night of the Blackwater._

How long could she hold such a grudge? Had he not left her intact and essentially unharmed? Besides, surely now that she was older and wiser she could see how he'd always favored her in the capital. He'd always at least attempted to protect her whenever he could.

 _Of course that all counts for nothing. These buggering highborns only see what they want to see in a man._

Sandor's hands balled into fists as he turned about in the direction of his horse, prepared to retrieve what few items he owned from the saddlebag. He couldn't deny that he'd hoped for a better reception from the lady, yet what could he truly have expected? He'd never in his life had the good fortune some men had of situations working easily in his favor.

He worked the bag loose before tossing the reins to one of the stablehands, patting his faithful beast affectionately on the rump in farewell. Sandor fell into the crowd of men at arms belonging to noble families as they made their way to their new quarters within Winterfell.

It only further complicated matters for him now that Sansa had somehow become even more strikingly beautiful than she'd already been. With no further trace of girlhood, her tall figure had filled out in all the right places and her features were even finer than the Dragon Queen's, whom some of the men had taken to calling the most beautiful woman in the world. Sansa Stark had always been more to his taste—there was something in the elegance of her form and the stunning combination of auburn hair with ivory skin, perfectly framing those large, doe eyes which were as pure blue as the brightest summer sky. To Sandor she'd been the very picture of what a highborn lady should look like, and that was only then, when she'd been little more than a child in the capital, meekly sweeping through the halls of the Red Keep with her head down and her spirit broken. Now…now she'd become something entirely different. Though she was still as courteous and well-mannered as ever, she now had a fire within her to match her hair, some new, fierce aspect to her personality.

 _Fierce, sure, but it's more than that. She's as disenchanted as you now._

Something prickled inside Sandor's chest at that thought. One of the things that had irked him most about Sansa Stark had been her childish fascination with romance and her naïve belief in all the goodness that life held in store for her. That aspect of her character had always drawn him to her, like the wolf to the lamb, proving an irresistible temptation for him to open her eyes and reveal the ugly truth about the world around her. He'd felt it his duty to shatter the image of fantasy that she'd created in her pretty little head, and had always relished seeing the horror and shock in her face whenever he'd perfectly crushed her ideals.

Yet, strangely, now that she'd seemingly learnt the lesson that he'd long wished to impart to her, he couldn't help but feel as if she'd lost something that belonged to her, something that was as much a part of her as her characteristic auburn hair. Everything about the girl he'd known in the capital was based around that naïve worldview, that knights-and-maidens rubbish that had always made her seem as if she'd stepped directly out of a fairytale. Now that it was gone, he found that he didn't truly know her anymore; Sansa Stark had become almost a stranger to him. And somehow that made Sandor Clegane more uncomfortable than he'd felt in a long time.

Releasing a long breath of exasperation, Sandor tossed his worn bag onto the lower bunk of the shared quarters, laying claim immediately to his own small corner of Winterfell. It mattered none to him that the bunk had already been claimed, and the man who'd just dropped his own things there looked for a moment as if he were about to protest. Realizing quickly who had displaced him, the man seemed to think the better of it, opting instead to mumble his complaints under his breath as he begrudgingly relocated to the upper bunk.

Collapsing onto the straw mattress, Sandor kicked off his boots and stretched his oversized frame across the bed, draping one arm across his eyes. He was exhausted—in every sense of the word—and knew that nothing would please him more than dissolving into the sweet, simple bliss of unconsciousness.

He shifted his weight while trying to get comfortable, hoping sleep would not elude him. With his eyes closed, every sound became more acute, every word spoken by an overly excited man-at-arms more jarring on his nerves. He ground his teeth and willed his mind to shut down, longing for just a few minutes rest.

Before long Sandor began to hear a soft murmur drifting through the wall beside him. He strained to listen to the familiar sound, surprised to recognize Sansa's voice as she apparently whispered to someone. She was angry, bitterness dripping from every word as she began to describe the events of the night of the Blackwater to whomever was her confidant.

"He was vicious and cruel." The unmistakable sound of weeping punctuated her words. "He told me he would kill me, and then—then he tore open my dress! He did—the unthinkable!"

Sandor drew back, shocked at what he was hearing while Sansa continued through her sobs. "He stole my virtue, left me broken and soiled forever!"

 _I didn't!_ Sandor tried to shout as much through the wall, but his voice was trapped in his chest. He struggled to raise himself up to get to her, to refute the lies, but found that he was paralyzed in place. Panic seized him. _I never raped her! Bloody hells, she's lying!_ He tried to force his mouth to form the words, clenching his stomach as he pushed the sound up and out from his gut, until finally it burst forth in an anguished shout.

Jerking violently, Sandor found himself suddenly raised up on his elbow, sweat beading on his forehead, his face just inches from the wooden supports for the upper bunk. With a grunt he looked about him, fixing the confused servant who stood at the threshold in an angry glare and succeeding in frightening him off. Sandor turned to stare at the wall, yet it was obvious that there were no whispers floating through it. The buzz of the men who were still talking and moving about in the adjacent rooms would never have allowed for _whispers_ to be heard anyway.

 _A fucking dream._

Annoyed at his heightened anxiety and the weakness he was showing, Sandor raked his hand through the tangles of his hair. A glance at the window told him he'd dozed for only a short time, perhaps half an hour. The bedframe groaned as he pressed his hands against the edge, lifting himself onto his feet heavily. He stripped himself down to his smallclothes, tossing the soiled items one by one into the pile of dirty clothing that the men had already created for the washerwomen. Shuffling groggily into the corridor, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and headed in the direction of the baths, vaguely recalling their whereabouts from his last stay in Winterfell.

Sansa's dream voice continued buzzing in his ear as he made his way down the hallway, passing other men who'd freshly bathed returning to their quarters, their skin still dripping and pink from the heat of the water.

 _She wouldn't lie_ , he told himself, though painfully unconvinced of the truth of the statement. After all, hadn't she spent some of her formative years in Littlefinger's care, the man who'd been the best fucking liar in Westeros?

Great clouds of steam greeted Sandor as he pushed through the wooden door leading into the bathhouse, the moisture and warmth in the air immediately dulling his senses. Men conversed and laughed as they reveled in the soothing natural hot springs. The water was piped through several stone baths, each large enough to hold ten men comfortably. A few solitary figures were simply reclining in the steaming water, their heads resting upon the smooth stone and their eyes closed, likely relishing the first time they'd been truly warm in weeks.

Sandor stepped out of his smallclothes and entered the furthest bath possible, though even it held two more bodies than he'd prefer. He ignored the other bathers and their obvious intimidation at his impressive form. The only time men looked on Sandor with something akin to envy instead of disgust was when he was naked as his nameday.

Sandor eased into the bath slowly, a husky groan escaping his throat. The hot water was like thousands of tiny needles as it crept slowly along his skin, stinging in the most pleasant way possible until he was submerged up to his broad shoulders.

Finally, for the first time in as long as he could remember, Sandor was completely enveloped in warmth. _The best bloody thing about this castle._ He leaned his head against the edge, closing his eyes with a heavy sigh as the pleasure overtook him and he very nearly dozed off again.

 _Wonder if anyone would even notice if I just stayed in this bath forever._ _Perhaps she'd prefer that._

He chuckled despite himself, and reached for the block of soap.

-Sansa-

Sansa intended to lose no time in her decision to find out exactly what had brought the Hound back to Winterfell of all places, and with her brother of all people. Once her guests had been shown to their respective quarters to freshen up before supper, she sought out Jon. A servant informed her that he'd headed toward the godswood, so to the godswood she went without delay.

"Jon!"

Her brother had just begun entering the wooded sanctuary when he turned at the sound of his name, allowing a tired smile to transform his countenance as Sansa approached him. "May I join you?" She asked gently.

Though Jon appeared exhausted, he agreed wholeheartedly, waiting until Sansa reached him before offering her a warm smile and his arm. She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow and the pair of siblings fell into step together easily along the pathway.

The rustle of fallen leaves beneath her feet, combined with the heady, familiar scent of moist earth and evergreen suddenly transported Sansa to her childhood. The blithe forms of children playing _Monsters and Maidens_ amongst the trees, laughing and squealing, danced through her mind, replacing her anxiety with a peaceful nostalgia. She momentarily lost herself in sweet memories of her family—at a time when it was whole and happy—until Jon's question pulled her back to the present.

"And what do you think of our new queen, Sansa?"

His tone was almost too casual, as if he was trying harder than he should to sound less interested in her answer than he was. Sansa made a mental note to observe the two more closely at their next encounter, certain that there was something more between her brother and Daenerys than a strictly political alliance. For the moment, she only smiled pleasantly as she responded.

"Well, she's certainly every bit as beautiful as I've heard." Sansa's brow raised playfully as she glanced sideways at her brother, pleased to see that her comment drew a chuckle from him.

She continued, "I cannot determine much about her yet as I've only just met her, but I will say that she is much more genuine and—and open than I perhaps thought she would be. Not at all like Cersei, for example."

Jon laughed again, more heartily this time as they neared the heart tree. "Gods, no, she's nothing like Cersei. Thankfully."

Sansa suddenly felt overwhelmed with just how much there was which needed to be discussed and shared between them after the long months of his absence, but she also knew there would be time for all of that later.

For now, although she couldn't explain why, Sansa _needed_ to know about the Hound.

"Jon, there was one person who, I have to admit, I was very surprised to see again in the courtyard today. I wanted to ask how he came to ride with your army?"

She stopped walking and turned to face her brother, drawing her arm out of his slowly as she searched for recognition in his eyes.

As Sansa suspected, Jon didn't need her to specify whom, for he'd briefly seen the exchange between his sisters and the Hound.

"You're talking about Clegane?"

"I am." Now it was Sansa's turn to sound less interested in the answer than she felt. "Jon, the last I heard of him he was dead, and now he comes sauntering back into Winterfell as if he's the Stranger himself!" She couldn't keep the annoyance from her voice, yet she found herself wondering why she was feeling annoyed in the first place. "How did he come to ride with _you_?"

Jon shrugged, "There isn't much to it, really. I found him at the Wall. He'd been riding with the Brotherhood for some time. Apparently their Lord of Light had told them that the only war which mattered was the one we were fighting." Jon gave a half-smile, "He got that right at least. They came north of the Wall with us to fetch the wight and Clegane was one of those who made it back alive, on the back of Daenerys' dragon. He's been with us ever since, on the journey to King's Landing for the parley with Cersei, and now back to the North again."

Jon drew up to a stop as they reached the base of the giant weirwood tree, turning to face Sansa.

She furrowed her brow, "Fine, but that still doesn't explain why Arya was certain he was dead from terrible wounds and a burning fever, yet somehow he shows up again riding with the Brotherhood."

"Oh. All I know about that is what Dondarrion told me, that Clegane had found them after the sept he was helping to build had been attacked and all of his companions slaughtered."

"Sandor Clegane was building a sept?" Sansa asked with incredulity, before laughing. "Jon, I wouldn't believe that for a moment, he despises the gods and religion."

Jon shrugged again, "I don't know, perhaps you should ask him." He narrowed his eyes at Sansa as if suddenly wondering why she was so curious about the man. "Are you upset to see him again? I thought you'd mentioned once that he had been kind to you in King's Landing?" His brows were furrowed in recollection. "I forget exactly what you said, but it was something about it being ironic that the Hound had ended up being the better man out of all the Kingsguards?"

Sansa felt her cheeks grow warm and cursed her body for betraying her. She rushed to clarify.

"No, it isn't that I am _upset_ that he's here…perhaps I'm mostly just _surprised_ to see that he somehow ended up in _your_ ranks. I had assumed after he deserted during the Battle of the Blackwater that he'd had enough of service. He told me with contempt that he was done and that the king could 'die well enough on his own.'"

Jon tilted his head and studied Sansa quizzically, "How would you have spoken with him _after_ his desertion?"

She'd cornered herself. Sansa paled, all possible explanations fleeing from her mind in an instant.

"I…he—well he came to my—room," she stammered, then rushed to explain further after Jon's eyes widened. "No, n-not like that, well I mean, perhaps for that, I mean—gods!"

Sansa rolled her eyes in frustration with herself, exhaling loudly with a sound of annoyance. She closed her eyes for a moment, steadied her nerves, and started again.

"He _did_ come to my room, rather drunk which wasn't unusual for him. He said he would take me back home—to Winterfell. I was frightened though, and I refused. He did seem angry after that," Sansa glanced hesitantly into Jon's eyes, unsure of how much she wanted to say. "I _did_ think for a moment that he meant to—to harm me in _that_ way, but then he left. And that was the last I ever saw of him, until this afternoon."

Sansa bit the inside of her lip nervously, having left out more than a few details of Sandor's behavior that night, yet she hoped that Jon wouldn't press for more. There were some things she decided that she'd rather not say, for reasons she could not yet fully determine.

Jon wrinkled his brow thoughtfully, and they were both silent for a moment or two before he spoke again.

"Well, I won't say that isn't…unusual, but if he didn't hurt you after finding you in such a vulnerable state—in the midst of battle too…" Jon fixed Sansa with a solemn expression. "Well, I suppose there's more to Sandor Clegane than he gets credit for."

Sansa was surprised, drawing back slightly with an expression of incredulity at such praise from Jon.

"What? But why would you think so? He was so—frightening!" She frowned, searching her brother's face for understanding.

Jon laughed, "Sansa, I don't think that man can _help_ being frightening!"

Sansa was unmoved, and when Jon saw that she was not like to join in his humor, his grin faded and he grew serious again. Clearing his throat he clarified further,

"Perhaps you were too young to understand then, Sansa, but when a man gets his bloodlust up and…" his look turned apologetic, "and—well, you're a beautiful woman. I can't say that I know many men who would have had integrity in such a situation, especially since he'd planned to desert anyway, he would have had nothing to lose."

Jon rested a hand on Sansa's shoulder, squeezing lightly. "You've only improved my opinion of him, and I've seen the man fight so I was already slightly in awe of him." The roguish grin returned and Sansa managed a weak smile in response.

"I'll see you again for supper?" He kissed her cheek.

Sansa nodded, "Of course, Jon, thank you."

She took her leave of him, more confused than ever.

* * *

Sansa gazed back at her reflection in the mirror distractedly, looking, but not truly seeing as her hands absently smoothed and tucked at her skirts. She'd been lost in thought since her conversation with Jon, unsure now as to how she should approach her interactions with the Hound.

Jon seemed to think Sandor Clegane to be a decent sort of man—a man with greater than usual _integrity._ Sansa felt that she had always known some element of this to be true even as a girl in King's Landing. The man had despised knights because they were so adored and praised by all as if they were some morally superior beings, despite the reality of which Sansa had eventually learned—that many were really just as cruel and self-serving as any common sellsword.

The Hound had also opposed Joffrey's treatment of her in his own small ways, whenever he could. He told the truth to a fault, and Sansa realized almost reluctantly that she could not help but agree with Jon—the Hound could have done much worse to her and yet he didn't.

Sansa frowned as her eyes traveled up to her pale neck, remembering at once the sharp, cold bite of steel she'd felt there when he'd pressed his knife into her tender flesh.

 _He made me sing for my life though,_ she thought as her fingers softly traced the nearly translucent skin of the pulsing, raised line through which flowed her life's blood. Her eyes closed of their own accord and she could almost believe that his weight was still crushing her small frame, the rank scent of blood, sweat, and vomit coming off of him as he rasped those cold words into her ear with a chilling malice.

 _"Sing for your pretty little life."_

 _He hated me in that moment,_ Sansa reflected, unsure of why that realization was painful. She searched her own deep blue eyes—her mother's eyes—which shone back at her from the glass, as if she might find the reason for his cruel behavior written there.

Slowly, reluctantly, she allowed a beguiling thought to take form in her mind, the one that she'd pushed away all afternoon since the moment she'd first laid eyes on him.

 _He was crying. After I sang for him, there were tears on his face._

She remembered the wetness on her palm when she'd touched his cheek. _Why would he cry?_

Sansa held her breath as she tried to transport herself back into that moment, hoping to revive some memory of what she'd truly felt in those terrifying minutes that he'd been in her room.

 _I felt an urge to touch him—to comfort him. But why, after he'd only just threatened my life?_

Sansa stared at the pale, solemn lady who returned her gaze boldly—or sadly—from the looking glass until she began to feel disoriented. Losing herself in the chasm of her own eyes was not giving her any answers.

She sighed in resignation, accepting finally that she could not make any further decisions about her behavior toward him until she'd been in his presence again for longer than a minute or two.

Somewhat relieved at the feeling of accomplishment gained by pushing her problem away for a later time, Sansa finally smiled at her reflection. The woman who smiled back did not look much like Sansa, she thought absurdly, before she smoothed her hair, pinched her cheeks for a rosy glow, and swept from her room.

-Sandor-

The supper hall was already full and the din which reached his ears upon passing through the great oaken doors was enough to sour Sandor's mood almost immediately. He couldn't imagine why in the seven hells men needed to shout at one another during supper. He strode toward the least crowded table and grunted for space to be made along the bench. The men began rearranging themselves begrudgingly when he heard himself summoned by a familiar voice.

"Clegane, come and dine with us!"

Sandor turned in the direction of the high table and the ever smug voice of Lord Tyrion, the Imp whom he'd once loathed so thoroughly.

While it was true that he no longer hated the dwarf, he couldn't say either that he much cared for the man's company. Still, Tyrion was seated amongst the other lords and ladies, and of course the queen. Sandor wouldn't refuse such superior company when faced with the sorry alternative of suffering through a meal with his current tablemates.

He moved slowly toward the high table, taking care not to allow his gaze to meet with Lady Sansa's. Sandor looked down at the little man who was seated next to Daenerys, "And to what do I owe this _honor?"_ He growled with a hint of sarcasm, but Tyrion only laughed.

"Why, Clegane, you wound me! I only wished to offer you to dine with better company." The Imp smiled his grotesque smile as he sipped his wine and gestured around the table. "You're a free man now, privy to our war councils, present at the parley." He traced a stubby finger around the rim of his goblet, "You needn't sit with the common soldiers."

Tyrion called for another chair to be brought and the servant obliged immediately, fitting Sandor in the largest opening that the table's current layout allowed. As his luck would have it, Sandor found he was seated directly across from Sansa, and sandwiched between Brienne and some fat Night's Watchman. He glanced back at Lord Tyrion as he settled himself and growled his thanks.

As Sandor's supper was placed before him, the conversation continued with Lord Varys' smooth, simpering voice.

"My dear lady, pray, do continue." Though the eunuch spoke to Lady Sansa, his eyes were fixed on the crippled Stark boy almost hungrily.

Sansa's voice was like a magnet. Despite Sandor's previous determination to avoid looking her way, he found himself drawn to her irresistibly as she resumed speaking. She was not meeting his gaze, looking instead at Lord Varys and for that Sandor was grateful. He found that being in her presence again after all these years was affecting him much more than was comfortable for him to admit.

"As I was saying, he has a gift similar to the _greensight_ which you may remember from the tales of the Children of the Forest and the crannogmen, yet it goes far beyond even that."

Sansa's lovely face turned in the direction of her elder brother as she continued, "It was with the _sight_ from his third eye that we were able to uncover the deceit with which Lord Baelish treated our lord father and my lady mother, that which ultimately led to their deaths."

She looked to her younger brother now and implored, "Bran, tell them how the War of the Five Kings was started."

Despite the general clamor of the great hall, a silence hung over the guests at the high table as they waited for this _three-eyed raven_ to speak.

When the boy opened his mouth, it seemed to Sandor as if his voice belonged to a man thrice his age. His demeanor was solemn and unanimated as he related to his audience how Lord Baelish had played the game of thrones to his own ends. Even Lord Varys, whose job it was to know _everything_ , seemed nearly as shocked as the others. Sandor couldn't say he was surprised by the revelation, knowing the kind of man that Littlefinger was and remembering how he'd betrayed Lord Stark, yet he marveled at Bran's supernatural ability to see into the past.

When the boy had finished relating these events, another long silence gripped the table, until it was broken abruptly by Lord Tyrion. He tapped his fingertips idly on the table while he spoke.

"Well. It's nice to know that I was kidnapped and nearly executed all for Littlefinger's _grand_ plan."

He sipped at his wine loudly before raising his goblet and cocking his oversized head. "Here's to you, Starks, for ridding Westeros of that steaming pile of sheep shit, pardon me, your Grace," he looked briefly to the queen before he downed the contents of his cup in one swallow.

Daenerys only smiled and gestured with her own goblet as well before taking a delicate sip as the impassive voice of the _three-eyed-raven_ boy cut across the table once more.

"There is much and more which must be discussed, my lords and ladies, with little time to spare. I would not wish to ruin your appetites by speaking of it all at present, but I would request your company in the council room this evening."

There was something in the way the lad spoke which gave his _request_ all the flavor of a _command_ , nevertheless every head nodded its acquiescence readily, even the Dragon Queen.

Sandor turned his attention back to his supper, yet before he could avoid it, his eyes had locked with Sansa's from across the table. She seemed to see right through him, as if she was searching his very soul for the answer to something. Unbidden, the thought that he had yet to broach the subject of the night of the Blackwater with her leaped into his mind, disrupting his confidence and causing him to be the first to avert his eyes. He hated the anxiety and tension, and so he resolved to seize the first opportunity he could to speak with her, just so he might get the deed over and done.

Thus, when the meal was nearly over and Sansa finally pushed herself back from the table ready to excuse herself, Sandor found himself rising to his feet and speaking before he'd even fully realized what he was doing.

"Lady Stark," he rasped.

Several curious heads turned in his direction at the unexpected gesture.

"Allow me to escort you to your chambers." Sandor clenched his jaw in an effort to stem the anxiety rising from the pit of his stomach.

Sansa looked for a brief moment as if she might refuse him, but then thought the better of it and instead dipped her elegant head into a curt nod.

"I would be very pleased for the company, thank you, Clegane."

If eyebrows were raised amongst the seated party, Sandor chose to ignore them, circling the table until he reached Sansa and they fell into step together.

Sandor waited until they'd left the main hall, reaching the relative silence of the corridor before attempting to speak to her.

"Lady Stark," he began, glancing across his shoulder at her briefly before continuing, "I know my face was probably not one you ever thought to see again. Hells, I never thought I'd find myself back here—or even fighting again. But the enemy I've seen—the dead," Sandor shook his head, "They'll consume all of Westeros if we can't find a way to stop them."

Though he didn't look at her, he heard in her voice that she'd turned her face toward him.

"It was very brave of you to join the mission north of the Wall."

Sandor's coarse laugh echoed through the yawning, empty passageway through which they traveled.

"You've said that to me before," he rasped, stopping in his stride and turning to her. "Called me brave. Do you remember what I told you then?" His good eyebrow lifted sardonically as he edged her closer to the wall, falling into his familiar habits of intimidation.

Sansa was unmoved and responded without a hint of fear or discomfort at the close proximity he'd created between their bodies.

"Yes, I remember. It was after you saved me from the riots. I thanked you for being brave and you said that a dog doesn't need courage to chase off rats." She looked up into his face boldly, seemingly blind to his scars now. _When did that happen?_

"Tell me, Clegane, would you call our new enemy 'rats?' Do you also not need courage to face them?"

A shade passed over Sandor's face as memories of the wights flashed across his eyes. The great, dead snow bear that savaged Thoros of Myr with its haunting eyes of ice. He clenched his jaw for a moment before growling, defeated.

"Aye, you need either courage or foolishness. I can't say that I know which I had when I agreed to go on that bloody mission with your brother."

Satisfaction and perhaps a hint of good humor settled onto her face as she turned and continued walking.

"And this is why you requested to see me to my chambers, Clegane? To display your courage? Or is it to mock me for the timid girl I was when last you knew me?"

Sandor clenched his fists and followed her, easily closing the distance until he was by her side once more, yet frustrated at how she was playing the conversation so well in her favor. Once it had been he who so deftly toyed with her, playing on her fear and timidity for his own sordid amusement. She would not react to him now as she once had, leaving Sandor at a loss for how to even converse with this strange woman without feeling like a fool. He resolved to spit out what he'd intended to tell her so he could be on his way.

They'd reached the short, well-lit corridor which led to the lady's chambers and it was now or never. Old habits caused Sandor to reach for her upper arm to stop her mid-stride, intending to spit out an apology and leave the awkward scene.

Instead she gasped and whipped her head around sharply pulling away from him to free herself of his grasp. A flash of vulnerability passed over her, and when he looked into her wide eyes the fear in them was almost terror—far more acute than he'd ever seen in her, even when he'd frightened her so often in the capital.

Shocked by her incensed reaction, he removed his hand quickly, mentally cursing himself for being such a fool. Her fear passed as quickly as it had appeared, and she seemed to recover her senses so well that he began to think he'd imagined it all. He answered her question.

"No, Lady Stark, I wanted to escort you so I could…clarify something." He looked away, hoping that his face would not betray the shame he felt. He cleared his throat, "The last time I saw you…"

She cut him off, her face swiftly becoming a mask, "There is no need to discuss the last time you saw me." Yet before she could continue walking, he barred her way with his arm.

"There is," he barked, annoyed that she was making this so difficult.

She jerked her steely eyes up to meet his, but remained silent, waiting.

He drew a deep breath and began, "I was…drunk. The wildfire…" He shook his head, trying to clear it. "Still, I—there was no excuse for what I did. It was—not what I wanted. I never wanted to hurt you, little bird."

Sansa's protective mask slipped for a moment when he used the familiar term of endearment, a look appearing in her eyes which he hadn't seen before. Apologies had never come easy to Sandor, but her eyes gave him courage. He spoke in a gravelly voice, little more than a whisper.

"For what it's worth now, I'm sorry—Sansa."

Sandor removed his hand from the wall where it had held her in place, and the silence between them was now the only barrier. He avoided her eyes, fixating instead on her lovely mouth which had fallen open only slightly. It seemed like an eternity before those lips closed into a line and he met her gaze again. Her brows contracted ever so slightly as she seemed to be trying to make sense of his confession, her eyes scanning his whole face and making him uncomfortable.

Finally, she jerked her head in a quick nod, the mask falling back into place over her countenance.

She avoided his eyes as she responded mechanically, "I thank you for your company this evening, Clegane. My chambers are just there. You'll excuse me."

She dipped into the smallest curtsy and swept away before he could even gather his thoughts, her light footfalls taking only a moment to disappear behind her doorway, culminating in Sansa Stark shutting him out with a heavy thud of finality.

Sandor was alone in the hall, the torchlight dancing around the walls at random—aimless, just like the thoughts in his head.

* * *

 **Thank you so much for reading and following! If you have a moment to leave a review, I'd love to hear from you!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I just wanted to say a huge thank you for those of you who are following, favoriting and especially leaving reviews. I am so excited for this story as I really am enjoying going deeper and creating a more complex and layered relationship between my favorite pair. Thank you for bearing with my slower pace this time around. If you are enjoying the story please don't hesitate to let me know, it really makes my day!**

* * *

Chapter 3

 ** _Belonging_**

-Sansa-

"The Wall has fallen?!" Jon was on his feet, leaning toward Bran with his fingertips pressed against the smooth, finished cedar of the council room table. His voice had risen to nearly a shout. "You're telling me the Wall has fallen and you've only just decided we should know this?! By the gods, when did you learn of this, Bran?"

The young man was positioned at one end of the long table so as to be easily seen by all the council, his sage expression and wheeled chair giving him the appearance of a wise and revered elder. He was no more incensed by Jon's reaction to the news than he would be by any other casual conversation.

"I saw the vision this morning," he responded calmly and without intonation, hands folded together in his lap.

Sansa covered her stomach with a trembling hand, willing it to settle, as she briefly closed her eyes in an attempt to remain calm. Jon's reaction was only illustrating what was felt by the entire room. Some had uttered curses under their breath or shouted exclamations of surprise when, only moments ago, Bran had begun the council without preamble, dispassionately stating that the Night King and the army of the dead were now on _this_ side of the Wall, a feat made possible by the reanimation of Daenerys' fallen dragon.

Now the room was filled with the low hum of ten private conversations as each astonished member of the council discussed the implications with his neighbor in low tones, or else just silently looked ill, as Sansa did.

Jon ground his teeth in frustration and took a deep breath before scolding the _three-eyed-raven_ as if he were still just Brandon Stark, Jon's little brother.

"Bran, we should have been told of this immediately—this is serious!" The heavy wooden feet of Jon's chair screamed in protest as he pushed it back across the stone floor, moving behind it to pace the room in agitation.

"I've seen what they can do to a stronghold—I witnessed it at Hardhome!" He dragged one hand through his shoulder-length, dark curls, as the stress of the situation began to clearly show in his demeanor. "They swept through thousands of wildlings, they pushed through a high, fortified wall in a matter of minutes and they killed everyone who wasn't in a boat beyond their reach!"

Unmoved, Bran's large brown eyes did not waver.

"I told you when it was best that you should be told, Jon. It would have accomplished nothing but chaos to tell you upon your arrival. Chaos is our enemy in this war. Our chances of survival are already thinner than any of us would like, it is imperative that we remain calm and in control—and that we formulate a plan."

Jon scoffed in frustration, but Bran ignored him and addressed Daenerys instead.

"Your grace, your dragon is now a weapon of the Night King. You must understand this." He paused and looked into her eyes for a moment, meeting the hesitation and grief he found there with his steadfast composure. "There is no element of Viserion left in him. You cannot save him or bring him back. He has become our enemy and we must discover a way to defeat him."

The Queen appeared to Sansa to be in turmoil, yet she raised her chin and jerked her head stiffly in acknowledgement, before quickly averting her eyes. Bran turned back to Jon.

"There is more. I don't see any reason to delay sharing this with you or the queen. Time is short and it is possible that this information is relevant to prevailing over our enemy."

Jon paused in his pacing, gripping the back of his chair with both hands, and leaning against it with a sigh.

"What is it?" His voice was strained and sounded decades older.

Bran turned his attention to Samwell Tarly.

"Sam, show Jon the book that you and Gilly found in Oldtown."

Sam jolted in surprise upon being called to speak in front of so many important persons. He licked his lips and nodded shakily, fumbling about in the folds of his clothing before finally producing an old, worn tome. He turned a white, perspiring face on Jon.

"Jon, you—you musn't be angry." The awkward maester-in-training glanced with apprehension at the queen, but did not hold her gaze. "Please, all of you, please try to listen before—" he cleared his throat nervously, "before you say anything."

Jon drew a strained half-smile onto his countenance at his friend's characteristic nervousness, "We're not going to bite your head off, Sam. It's all right. Say what you need to say, we've important things to discuss."

Sam nodded in resignation, "All right. When I came to Winterfell, I spoke with Bran about—about this information that I'd found in Oldtown. Well, Gilly found it, b-but that doesn't matter, really. What matters is that Bran's visions had already told him some of what _this_ book confirms." He raised the book in front of him for emphasis.

When the room remained silent, Sam looked at Jon anxiously, but finally determined to just plow through the information.

"All right then." He opened the book to a page which had been previously marked with a ribbon, then drew a deep breath, "Jon, this book is Septon Maynard's records of everything that he ever did as a septon." He jabbed a plump finger at the page as he spoke, punctuating his claims. "And here, on this page, there is a record of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen's annulment from his marriage to Elia Martell, and _remarriage_ to—to Lyanna Stark."

Several gasps and whistles arose from around the table, but Sam raised a shaky hand to stay them.

"Please—please wait until I've finished." He fixed his round, beady eyes on his former brother in black, trying to maintain control of his trembling voice. "J-Jon, you are n-not the bastard son of Ned Stark. You're the _legitimate heir_ of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark."

Sam had clearly been expecting the room to explode, yet instead the news had shocked the entire group into a stunned silence. He scanned the crowd nervously, glancing from Jon who looked as if all the breath had been knocked out of him, then back to Bran as his eyes begged that the boy take over. Bran nodded slightly and Sam resumed his seat as quickly as he could, looking as if he'd prefer to leave the room or just disappear entirely.

"This is impossible," Tyrion's voice was low and incredulous. "Rhaegar kidnapped and—and raped Lyanna Stark, every babe knows that."

"No." As usual, Bran's tone brooked no argument. "I saw their marriage in a vision. They were in love. Later, during Robert's Rebellion, my father found Lyanna in childbed at the Tower of Joy. My aunt made my father swear that he would keep Jon's identity a secret, lest Robert have him killed. He swore it to her on her deathbed." Bran turned to address a stunned Jon whose knuckles were white as they gripped the chair as if he might have fallen without it. "Jon, your true name is Aegon Targaryen."

"Gods," whispered Sansa, drawing a trembling hand up to cover her mouth. She glanced at Jon who had collapsed into his seat again, his face pale and dazed. By his side the Queen was a vision of raw emotion—whether it was confusion, anger, disgust or some strange combination of the three, Sansa could not be sure.

"The child of ice and fire," murmured Varys, his hands tucked inside the opposite sleeve as they rested on the table. His eyes, wide and round, turned upon Tyrion with silent implication.

Tyrion gestured impatiently toward Sam. "Let me see that book, Tarly."

Sam pushed it quickly toward the dwarf, already open upon the correct page and Tyrion scanned over the contents, his mouth moving silently as he confirmed the claims with his own eyes.

"If this is true, this changes everything," Sansa uttered, as much to herself as to the room.

Daenerys whipped her head about in alarm to fix Sansa with large, uncertain eyes. The queen was likely angry about the sudden upset to her claim, yet there was also confusion and what Sansa thought might be pain written upon her countenance as she struggled to maintain composure and process the life-shattering information.

Sansa suddenly felt uncomfortable, as if she'd happened upon some private conversation which was not meant for her ears. Not only had Daenerys believed herself to be the last of her kin, it dawned on Sansa that perhaps the queen had harbored other intentions for the "alliance" between herself and Jon.

Jon drew his head up slowly from where it'd been hanging between his elbows and pressed his fist against his mouth. He was looking only at the table, completely lost to the rest of the room which had fallen into a long and uncomfortable silence.

At once feeling the need to do something to spare the dignity of their rulers, Sansa stood and addressed Bran.

"Bran, have we any reason to believe that our enemy will be at our gates within a fortnight?"

Bran knitted his brows in thought for a moment before replying. "No. The Night King is not in any hurry. I have not yet learned his ultimate purpose, but there is no urgency in his movements south."

"Good." Sansa addressed the council, "My lords and ladies, let us reconvene in the morning after breaking our fast. This news comes as a shock and we all will need time to process it. We will be in a better position to discuss strategy and these new developments after a good night's rest."

Sansa was grateful that her announcement was met with no resistance. Jon and Daenerys looked relieved, nodding their acquiescence distractedly as murmurs of agreement rose from around the table. In less time than it'd taken for Sansa to call an end to the meeting, the room had all but emptied, its occupants clearly eager to distance themselves from the awkwardness of the news and begin discussing its implications in private.

Sansa walked tentatively around the table to Jon's side, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Jon, if you have need of anything, send for me without hesitation. This will just take time." She squeezed lightly and Jon laid his hand over hers, looking up at her with a weak, distracted smile.

Sansa turned to Daenerys and dipped into a polite curtsy. "Good evening, your grace."

Daenerys just looked pained and could hardly manage a nod in return. Sansa left them alone.

On the other side of the door she closed her eyes and exhaled the shaky breath that she didn't realize she'd been holding, adrenaline racing through her veins.

Jon a _Targaryen!_

The revelation was mind-blowing, completely taking her entire childhood and flipping it upon its head. Every time she'd pitied her half-brother's dishonorable birth, every superior thought she'd ever felt suddenly came coursing back through her memory so that she almost laughed aloud at herself.

And all the while he'd been a _prince!_ Not just any prince either, the _true_ heir to the iron throne, hidden away in the North under a lie to save his very life. It was exactly like something out of a tale she might've heard as a little girl at Old Nan's knee, and yet it was _true_! And to top it off, Jon was the product of a wild love affair, a love so strong that it had thrown the entire country into a violent war. It was almost too much to comprehend.

Sansa needed to get away, to be alone with her thoughts. She held her skirts as she hurried back to her chambers.

* * *

It took hours for Sansa to find sleep. She tossed and turned beneath the furs, feeling as if the entire evening had only been a strange dream. Even before the incredible revelation of Jon's parentage, she'd already been reeling from her previous encounter with Sandor. Now she found herself reliving the strange experience as she gazed at the wooden beams which crisscrossed her ceiling in the relative darkness of her chamber.

His apology had taken her completely off guard—he was not and had never been the type to admit of a wrong, yet he'd singled her out in private simply to do just that? Had the huge, frightening Hound really changed so much in all this time?

 _Perhaps he'd had some other intention all along._ Yet even as she thought it, she knew it wasn't true. She'd seen the sincerity behind his eyes and something that looked remarkably like regret. _A dog would never lie to you._

Sansa remembered the look on his face when she'd pulled away from his grasp. She almost felt sorry that she'd startled him so—it wasn't his fault, after all, that his rough handling of her had taken her back momentarily to the most traumatic experiences of her life. She'd tried to regain her composure quickly, but she knew that he'd seen her incensed reaction and had been confused by it. And in the moment, with all of the violent behavior of all the men she'd known, including Sandor, so fresh in her mind it had been too much for Sansa to give him her forgiveness. She'd closed off to him and wanted nothing more than to put distance between them.

She didn't truly know if she _had_ forgiven him yet, even after all these years.

While it was true that Sansa had not often thought about the Hound with any real bitterness or anger, there had always been some vague anguish inside of her that was associated with his treatment of her from that night. His "Hound" façade so perfectly embodied what she felt was the true nature of men beneath their empty flattery and false pretenses. They'd all proven to be ravenous beasts, ready to consume her innocence, to feed off of her pain and the Hound had been the first one to point out that awful truth to Sansa.

Then he'd become that beast himself that night of the Blackwater, even if it had only lasted for a few terrible minutes.

His gesture of apology coming now, after so many years, was certainly a surprise, and not an unwelcome one, yet Sansa wasn't quite ready to let go of her anger. Even though she could readily admit to herself that none of her feelings of injury or hatred were directed toward him in particular, there was some way that he was connected to all of it that she couldn't quite put her finger on—some way that he embodied that bitterness that she held in her soul toward men who had always taken from her and used her and hurt her. That trauma and pain had become intertwined so thoroughly with the woman she'd become that she could scarcely differentiate where it ended and where she, Sansa, began.

Perhaps she would never forgive him—or men in general, for that matter. Perhaps she would end her life as a widow, completely disgusted with the opposite sex, and the bitter disappointment they'd all turned out to be. She could refuse to enter into another marriage, remaining at Winterfell until the end of her days.

The prospect didn't repulse her as it once might have and she lingered on that thought until sleep finally claimed her.

-Sandor-

By the following morning, Winterfell was abuzz with the news. Although the council had been a private one, naturally the information had spread to the entire castle within a matter of hours. Jon Snow was really the heir to the iron throne—the Wall was breached by the army of the dead. The details varied after that depending on whom one spoke to. Daenerys and Jon would marry despite their relation, as the Targaryens of old had. Jon would unseat Daenerys and immediately demand his right to the throne, which would incite a war against the dragons and their mother. Daenerys planned to feed Jon to her dragons at the first opportunity. Each speculation was more absurd than the last.

Sandor ate a hurried breakfast before finding himself in the council room once more. The group which was gathered around the table was almost an exact replica of the night prior—except that Jon and Daenerys both looked as if they hadn't slept a wink.

 _So much for the little bird's plan that everyone get some rest._

Sandor glanced at her, remembering their encounter in the hall and how she'd shut him out after he'd swallowed his pride and _lowered himself_ to apologize to her. Women were always so bloody complicated. He'd done wrong by her and so he'd done his best to right it, and look at all the good it'd done.

 _She'd probably have liked it if I'd taken a knee and begged._

A nagging voice in the back of his mind tried to tell him that he'd probably prefer to brood as well instead of accepting an apology from someone who'd angered him, but acknowledging the truth of that at the moment would not do for his frustration with her, so he pushed it away.

When she did not meet his gaze, choosing to look instead at every other person in the room, nodding gracious little courtesies, and then finally just staring down at her hands folded in front of her, Sandor snorted to himself.

 _You want to sulk, woman, then sulk. I've said my piece._

When the last of the council had seated themselves, Jon rose.

"The Queen and I have come to an agreement in regards to the news we all received last night." He glanced down at Daenerys and she nodded back at him. "Daenerys Targaryen is still our Queen. I will not pursue any claim to the Iron Throne at this time. While I don't have any interest in ruling at all, Daenerys feels that the people may wish otherwise, so after the threat of the Night King has been dealt with, we will revisit the issue and confer with our most trusted advisors. For the moment, we will act as if the news had never come."

Some shifted in their seats or raised eyebrows at their neighbors, but no objections were made.

Jon continued speaking to the council, "As for the other, more pressing bit of information—the Night King has breached the Wall. There is now nothing separating us from the army of the dead. Every man, woman, and child stands to face a death more terrible than I'd wish on my worst enemy if we cannot win the battle for the dawn."

"That makes it simple, then," it was Sansa who spoke, and all eyes turned to her. "We _must_ win."

Her hands were folded in front of her and she looked the very picture of serenity and strength.

 _And stubbornness._

Jon fixed her in his gaze and a shade of regret seemed to pass across his features, as if he were dreading something. "Yes, Sansa, I suppose you're right." He smiled sadly, "but we must ALL contribute to winning this war, each as we are able."

Sandor thought there was something behind his words, some hidden meaning, and this suspicion was further supported by the sudden discomfort which seemed to come over Sansa. She narrowed her eyes slightly as her mouth thinned into a hard line.

Jon spoke again with some hesitation, "Since you've addressed the topic, I might as well continue with the decision Daenerys and I came to last night, and have since confirmed its wisdom with our closest advisors. Sansa—"

"No." She cut him off, rising to her feet abruptly. "I know what you're going to ask of me and I won't do it." She spoke firmly, yet there was an underlying fear in her voice which Sandor had always been able to recognize beneath her courtesies.

"You must." It was Daenerys now who spoke, rising as well from her position next to Jon. "Lady Sansa, you are the last representation of the Stark rule in the North. The people follow you, the people trust you. We need Bran here to help us with his knowledge for the battle. We need _you_ to lead the people."

Sansa clenched her jaw, and addressed the queen with ill-concealed annoyance, clearly preferring to have kept the disagreement between herself and Jon.

"Your grace, I will do as you ask and lead the people to the best of my ability. _Here._ In Winterfell. My _home!_ "

Jon shook his head. "And you expect the little children to stay with you, Sansa? All of the grandfathers and grandmothers, all of those who are too weak or too young to fight? We must get our people to safety and _you_ are essential for that plan. We cannot send thousands of people south with no leader, no plan, no strength."

Sansa's voice rose in pitch, "You can send one of our bannermen! You can send someone else in my name, you—"

"Or I can send you!"

Jon's voice had risen as well and he leaned over the table, an imposing vision of authority, Sandor thought, despite his small stature.

"Sansa, you are a Stark! You are the blood of the North. Your mother's house words are 'Family, Duty, Honor.' Your father's are 'Winter is Coming.' Winter _has_ come now and it is your _duty_ to your family and for the sake of the _honor_ of your house to lead your people to safety! Sometimes winning a war is not accomplished only by fighting! If you get our people to safety, to Daenerys' ships in White Harbor, you will take hope with you for a new beginning if we should fail here. You will take the North with you, the sons and daughters of those who died fighting to start a new life. We don't need another bannerman for this, Sansa, we need _you._ "

The finality with which Jon ended his impassioned speech stayed any further objections from Sansa. Her face was hard as ice, yet Sandor could see the lump traveling in her throat as she swallowed whatever retort she'd been forming.

Finally she spoke in a low monotone, "Is this your command?" She looked at both Jon and Daenerys in turn.

Jon sighed and cast his gaze down to the table, before glancing sideways at Daenerys.

"It is."

Sansa's chin raised slightly as she nodded curtly.

"When shall I leave, _your grace_?"

Jon winced at her tone, but there was no time to cater to feelings. "We've already sent the news to the people of Wintertown and every village within half a day's ride to prepare to travel. I hope you can set out on the morrow. More will join you on the Kingsroad."

Sansa's jaw clenched and her face grew a little whiter, but she remained silent as Jon continued.

"We have sent ravens to the other houses of the North. If they are able, they will plan to send their people to White Harbor as well to meet you there. We don't have many fighting men to spare to send south with you, but you'll have one man-at-arms for every twenty civilians."

Sansa nodded stiffly again, "And I can take my shield, Brienne, I imagine?" she asked coolly.

Jon nodded, "Aye, Brienne will go, but you are too valuable to travel so lightly guarded. One shield cannot protect you day and night. You'll have need of one more seasoned fighter, at the very least."

Jon turned and met his gaze, turning Sandor's stomach upside down as he guessed what might follow.

"Clegane, I would have preferred to ask you in private, but there's just not been time." Jon flexed his sword hand and closed his eyes briefly before continuing. "You have proven your loyalty to our cause as well as your ability to protect the lady Sansa. By her own admission you have protected her more than once, and not only when duty required it of you." Jon's brow raised slightly as if to challenge him to deny it, and Sandor's pulse quickened at the thought of what Sansa had shared with Jon. It couldn't have been all of the events of _that_ night or he would never consider sending her away with him.

Sandor rose to his full height in acceptance of the statement, not feeling any need to deny Jon's implications.

At his silence, Jon nodded and continued, "You are one of the best warriors in Westeros and while I would be pleased to have you fight alongside us here, I will rest in greater ease knowing that Sansa has such a sword to defend her. However, you are a free man and therefore I will not command you. This will be your own decision. If you choose to go, you will swear an oath."

Almost as an afterthought, Jon turned to Sansa, "And of course, as long as the lady has no objections."

Sansa's jaw tightened, but she only lifted her chin higher.

"I have none, do as you see fit," she responded icily.

Brienne stood suddenly in indignation, "Your grace, I assure you, this is not necessary. I have protected the lady Sansa even before she accepted my oath!"

Jon raised a hand in acknowledgement of Brienne.

"My lady, you have my gratitude for your loyalty as Sansa's sworn shield, and you will continue to guard her as dutifully as ever. However, the key to the North and the leader of all our people must have as much protection as we can spare. At the very least she will need another sworn shield."

Sandor's mind was racing a thousand miles a minute, and he found himself annoyed at how excited the news had made him. _Like a damned green boy getting my first assignment. Why should this one be any different?_

And yet, it was different. It was something he _wanted_ though he hadn't recognized that until this moment. And Sandor could not remember the last time his life had given him anything he'd wanted.

As much as his pride would have preferred that he avoid her eyes just as she'd made a point to avoid his, Sandor couldn't keep his gaze from falling upon Sansa to determine how she would take the news. Stubborn as ever, she still avoided eye contact, maintaining a stony façade in rebellion of Jon's decision to send her away.

It made no matter, she didn't have to like it. When had she ever liked his company?

He turned his attention back to Jon. If he gave the impression of hesitation it was only to not appear too eager. Go south, away from the dead fuckers to protect the beautiful, highborn, Sansa Stark, or stay in the frozen, buggering North to die a shit death and become a wight. It was the easiest decision he'd ever made in his life, oath or no oath. But appearances must be kept, so he made a show of grinding his teeth and appearing uncertain before finally nodding.

"Aye. I'll go then," he rasped thickly. "I'll take an oath to be her shield, but not a bloody word more."

Jon nodded, relief lightening his expression as he gestured Sandor to move toward Sansa. "There's witnesses here and time is short, we'll hear the oath now."

Sandor glanced sideways at Brienne who looked as if she'd just sat upon a particularly knobbly stick. Her broad face was a combination of shame and indignation, so much so that Sandor almost felt a stab of pity for her. Almost.

Sansa turned abruptly toward Sandor when he reached her and he drew his sword at once, laying it at her feet. He recited the oath from memory, swearing himself to her protection, as he knelt before her. He found that as his mouth intoned the familiar words, he truly meant every one.

"And I swear that I shall ask no service of you which shall bring you dishonor." Sansa's voice was cool and distant as she responded with the expected words. "You shall always have a place by _my hearth_ and meat and mead at _my table_." She'd intoned the words in such a way as to outline the irony that she was leaving both hearth and table at Jon's command.

Sandor stood slowly until he was towering above her and looked down into her icy blue eyes which had finally lifted to meet his.

Her breath seemed to catch for the tiniest moment as her gaze flicked back and forth between his eyes, and she hesitated with the final words. Her stubborn confidence suddenly faltering beneath him, Sansa dropped her gaze and hurriedly finished her part of the oath.

"I swear it, by the old gods and the new."

Whether anyone else in the room had noticed the tension which had passed between them or not, Sandor couldn't find it in himself to care. He was now sworn to Sansa Stark until the end of their days and, judging by what he'd just seen, he still clearly held _some_ power over her.

He shouldn't have liked that knowledge as much as he did, but Sandor had never pretended to be perfect.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N**

 **One small point, you'll see descriptions of Wintertown in this chapter which is one of the largest settlements in the North during winter. In the books it's really right outside the castle walls, but since this fic is technically in the show category, and we never see a town right outside of Winterfell in the show, I'm putting it located just a short ride from the castle.**

 **As always thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Your reviews help keep me motivated!**

* * *

Chapter 4

 _ **Revelation**_

-Sansa-

Sansa's heart was hammering in her chest as Sandor Clegane's self-satisfied gaze bore a hole through her.

The idea that he was now bound to her for life had given her a sudden and unexpected thrill which she was now trying her utmost to both understand and simultaneously repress. His wild, overgrown beard shifted slightly to accommodate a grin before he turned around and headed back to his seat, leaving Sansa standing alone and feeling incredibly exposed.

The room had fallen silent, punctuated only by heavy footsteps and the _thump_ of a very large body collapsing back into his chair.

Sansa, in a desperate attempt to draw attention away from the awkward silence in which the Hound had left her, turned to Daenerys and resurrected their prior discussion.

"So are we to just wait in White Harbor for news of the outcome of the battle? What if there _is_ no news?" Sansa moved closer to the table, placing a tense hand on the back of her chair for some much-needed stability in her rapidly spiraling world. "What if you are all defeated and we are attacked without warning by this _dead_ dragon that was capable of taking down the Wall? How will we be any safer there than we are here?"

Perhaps this could be the key to changing their minds, the key to helping all of them realize that sending her away would serve no purpose.

Sansa raised an eyebrow, challenging the queen to refute her logic, "Are we to board the ships and just remain on them for months? And even then, what would prevent the dragon from following us out into the harbor and destroying our ships before we've even put out to sea?"

The silver-haired queen released a deep breath in an impatient huff, flashing Jon a look which seemed to concede to some victory on his part. Jon wore an expression which simply said "I-told-you-so," and he calmly folded his hands in front of him, making no move to intervene in the discussion. He seemed to be quite content in leaving the situation entirely to Daenerys' own powers of negotiation.

The young queen faced Sansa again and tilted her head in understanding, "Yes, we have considered this as well. I assure you, Lady Sansa, we are working through a solution. Jon and I will discuss the final decision with you shortly before your departure. For now, you will prepare to leave Winterfell as soon as possible."

Daenerys, despite her petite stature, was capable of portraying a very commanding presence when she needed to. Although Sansa's agitation was palpable, she thought it would be unwise to continue to challenge the Dragon Queen before the entire council, especially while she had no ally to support her cause.

Succumbing to her fate, she voided her expression and lifted her chin in proud resignation.

"Of course, your grace," Sansa replied curtly, without tremor or weakness in her voice, only steel resolve and a bitter taste in her mouth. "As there is no time to waste, you will be so kind as to excuse me."

Sansa was done with the discussion—with the entire situation—and an urgency to be alone as soon as possible soon overwhelmed her. Without waiting for permission or a formal dismissal, Sansa cast Jon a scathing look and swept from the room.

* * *

-Sandor-

"Clegane!"

Sandor recognized her voice immediately and scowled at his ill-luck. He'd hoped for a quiet ride into Wintertown to purchase some much needed clothing and other essentials for yet another journey which he must embark on, but a moment of solitude was apparently too much to ask for when it came to Brienne of Tarth.

Casting a reluctant glance over his shoulder, he growled a reply.

"Are you following me, wench?"

Brienne's mount closed the distance between them and she fell into pace by his side, her already unpleasant countenance set into an unbecoming scowl as she glared sideways at him.

"I'm not following you. I have business in the Winter town as well."

She was still upset with him, despite the fact that becoming Sansa's second shield had not been his idea. Her large, full lips were turned decidedly downward, and she tossed her cropped, straw-like hair out of her eyes impatiently.

"You have business that drove you to leave the castle _exactly_ when I did, is that it?" Sandor chuckled sarcastically as he wrapped the reins tighter around one large, gloved hand. "Be honest, wench, do you mean to try and kill me so you can be the only one protecting your _precious charge_?"

Sandor's hoarse laughter only deepened the frown lines on Brienne's face, which had been his intention. This brooding, awkward woman was far too easy to provoke, and Sandor couldn't help his bemusement at how easily she succumbed to mockery. It was a weakness which she surely _should_ have overcome by now, having undoubtedly been the butt of many a joke in her lifetime.

"My name is _Brienne_." She took the bait readily, fixating him with her judgmental blue eyes, affronted just as easily as he'd anticipated. "And yes I did mean to speak with you. I figured now was as good a time as any, before we leave on the morrow for White Harbor."

Sandor grunted and spat, already wishing he could be rid of her. "All right, get on with it then. I ain't got all day."

For all of the woman's aggravating qualities, at least she wasted no time with empty words. Brienne was straight to the point.

"Any fool can see how _pleased_ you were this morning with your new assignment, Clegane. My interest is in _protecting_ the lady Sansa. _Why_ her brother—cousin rather—would have chosen _you_ of all the men he could have appointed as her shield is _beyond_ my understanding."

Her words—so emphatically punctuated at regular intervals—were dripping with self-righteousness and the contempt which Sandor so often encountered by men, and apparently now women too, of " _honor_."

Sandor's mood darkened and he clenched his jaw in an attempt to stay the rage that she was beginning to provoke in him.

"Aye, of course I'm pleased," he spat back in reply. "Any fool would be pleased to get out of this fucking frozen wasteland and head in the _opposite_ direction of that dead army."

He turned to Brienne, leaning over in his saddle and ensuring that she had a full visual of his scarred face. Using his fearsome countenance against an opponent was a habit of intimidation he had developed long ago whenever his anger was roused.

"You seen the army of the dead, _wench_? No? Then don't judge me for being _pleased_ to get as far away from them as possible."

He growled and jerked the reins, a little too roughly for the poor beast who was by no means to blame for the stupid woman riding beside him.

Brienne was momentarily silenced by his harsh reply, having clearly not expected such a logical and succinct refutation of her assumptions. Her tongue traveled across her teeth in agitation behind her scowling lips as she worked to formulate an appropriate reply.

"Fine. That's a fair reason," she conceded lamely, while still trying to maintain a semblance of righteous indignation to justify her accusation against him. "But I believe you understand to what _pleasure_ I am alluding. Lady Sansa has been running from the clutches of vile men for half of her life. She's _finally_ rid herself of them and then Jon goes and assigns you, a man with—questionable motives and a past life serving her enemies in charge of her protection!"

Sandor growled darkly, his patience worn dangerously thin.

"You don't know shit about me, woman!" He snarled back at her with contempt. "I know what Sansa's been through, I stood there in King's Landing in my fucking white cloak and watched those shits beat her! You think I liked it? Ask her yourself who wanted to get her out of that shithole when Stannis attacked. Don't lecture me about what she's endured," he snapped, clenching his fists to suppress the overwhelming urge to knock her out.

Brienne's voice rose in pitch as her anger began to match his.

"Do you truly believe that what she endured in King's Landing was even the half of it—even a quarter of what that poor girl has been through? Do you know who Ramsay was?" Her eyes flashed a striking blue against the flush of her skin, as she challenged him with swelling outrage.

Sandor's confidence faltered slightly at that, and he did not immediately respond. Truth be told, he had already been feeling uneasy about what _exactly_ that man had done to Sansa. He'd heard rumors, but nothing that had been confirmed—after all, men lied and exaggerated all the time. Now it became clear to him that he'd been clinging to a stupid, naive hope that maybe it was all just rumors and exaggeration.

Despite his uncertainty, Sandor feigned understanding to save face, "Aye, I know he was some bastard of Bolton. Some say he was cruel to her."

"Cruel?" Brienne laughed without mirth, a strange sound coming from someone as tightly wound as she. "That hardly does justice to the monster that he was." She narrowed her eyes, "You remember Theon? Surely as a man you've heard what was done to Theon Greyjoy at the hands of Ramsay?"

Sandor winced, remembering exactly what the men had said about Theon's _condition_. He didn't want to accept the reality that Sansa truly _had_ been at the mercy of a man like that. He'd been rejecting the idea ever since he'd first heard of Ramsay, though he hadn't realized _why_ until now. Believing the horrible stories surrounding Sansa's experience with the Bolton bastard caused a sickening dread in the pit of his stomach, a feeling that he preferred to repress.

 _You're no better than the girl when she believed in knights and fairy tales. You didn't want to believe it because it was an ugly truth, a truth that hurt._

Brienne continued, incensed with her subject and oblivious to Sandor's inner turmoil.

" _His_ torturer was the same man who married Sansa. Do you think he spared her any more than he spared Theon? Sansa was willing to _jump_ from the walls of Winterfell to escape him, to _flee_ into the frozen wilderness on foot to escape him. Do you understand how desperate a highborn lady would have to be to do such a thing?!"

Sandor's mind began to fog as he allowed Brienne's words to engulf him, fully impressing upon him the horror that had been Sansa's most recent marriage. He cringed inwardly as he envisioned the little bird falling from the castle walls, fleeing in desperation from a madman.

"I saw her at that point, I _saw_ what he'd done to her. He tortured her just like he tortured Theon."

Brienne paused for emphasis, her chest heaving with emotion as she struggled to catch her breath and stay the tremor in her voice.

Sandor remained silent, sick with regret. If only he had taken her away with him from the capital…

"And before Ramsay it was Littlefinger. Can you imagine a beautiful, young maiden alone in the clutches of that pervert? If you think he spared her his advances you're _wrong_. He only needed her maidenhead to secure the alliance with the Boltons, that didn't prevent him from taking anything else. So when I tell you that you don't know what Sansa has endured, I mean you don't _truly understand_ what that woman has been through. I have dedicated my life to ensuring that Sansa need never experience anything like that again, and I need to know now if I'll need to protect her from _you_ as much as anyone else!"

Sandor had listened to the remainder of her diatribe in silence, too stunned and disgusted to reply. His thoughts went to Littlefinger putting his hands on Sansa, then selling her to a man who would torture and rape her.

He almost lost himself as the fury which filled him completely threatened to replace any cognizant thought that he might have had. Every moment he'd spent with Sansa since returning to Winterfell flashed through his mind as he reviewed her behavior in an entirely new light, feeling at once overwhelmed and furious and helpless.

Brienne shifted in her saddle beside him with a grunt of finality, rousing Sandor from his somber contemplation. His aggression toward the woman had dissipated into a kind of solidarity when he finally replied.

"You don't need to worry about me," he growled quietly, "I'm not my brother, though everyone would love to believe it. Sansa knows I always tried to spare her from Joffrey's rages from the moment they killed her father. Aye, I probably could have done more, but I was a Kingsguard, I'd been in service to the Lannisters most of my life. Defying them was not something I could have easily done." He pulled at the mane of his horse absently, trying to repress the feeling that he'd ultimately failed her by reminding himself of the times that he hadn't. "When the mob came for her I was the only one who went back for her. And if you think in all that time that I couldn't have easily taken from her whatever you're implying that I'm after, then you're a fool. Jon chose me because he knows I would never hurt Sansa."

Feeling uncomfortable at having shared more than he intended to with this woman, Sandor drew up to his full height and cleared his throat awkwardly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Brienne seemed to relax, fixing her gaze on the road ahead in solemn contemplation. They rode in this manner for several minutes, each in silent reflection, until they began entering the outskirts of the Winter town.

Brienne finally acknowledged him with a reluctant, yet sincere response.

"I am pleased to know that we understand one another. You'll forgive my insinuations, I needed to ensure that you were not a threat to Lady Sansa's safety." The incensed and fuming Brienne of minutes ago had been displaced by the honor-bound, tiresome woman that she'd always been. "I swore an oath to her mother that I would find her daughters and keep them safe, and I will die before I fail either of the Lady Starks."

Sandor grunted, but didn't bother with a reply, knowing that this was as close as he would get to Brienne accepting him as Sansa's new shield.

The people of Wintertown began casting suspicious and fearful glances at the two strange figures riding past them. Children stopped their play to whisper at each other, or run for the safety of their hovels while women averted their gaze whenever they beheld his countenance. Reactions like this were nothing new for Sandor, and he hardly noticed them as he remained lost in thought. Finally, he turned to Brienne.

"You said Baelish needed her maidenhead, yet she was a woman wedded and bedded by the Imp at that point," he grimaced at the mere mention of the fact, one that had torn at him since he'd first learned of their marriage years ago before he'd promptly drowned himself in wine and nearly died as a result.

Brienne was stoic by this point and responded almost dryly. "Wedded, yes. But Lord Tyrion was kind enough to spare Sansa his marriage bed. A courtesy that was not extended to her by Ramsay. As I understand, he raped her the night of their wedding and forced Greyjoy to watch."

A gutteral sound left Sandor's throat as he clenched his jaw so tightly he feared he'd break a tooth.

As an afterthought, Brienne assessed him warily, "You'll not repeat any of this. I have only told you so that you might understand my...concern for Sansa."

Sandor remained silent for a moment to allow his rage to dissipate before he trusted himself to speak coherently.

"That Ramsay." The name felt like a curse on his tongue, like bile in his mouth and he wished it could somehow be made tangible so that he could exact his fury upon it. "Whatever happened to him? I was only told that he was executed."

Brienne raised her eyebrows, the question apparently taking her by surprise. She looked at him strangely for a moment before understanding finally spread across her face, along with a reluctant grin.

"Sansa had him chained in the kennels and then set his own dogs on him."

There was a tinge of maternal pride in her tone as she nudged her beast into a trot, inclining her head toward Sandor in the smallest gesture of solidarity before she disappeared into the throng of people who were rushing about as they prepared to leave their entire lives behind.

A chill traveled down his spine as Sandor pictured sweet, polite Lady Sansa carrying out such a unique and violent sentence against her abuser. He allowed a smile of cruel satisfaction to bloom as he imagined the man torn apart by _dogs_ with Sansa watching on in silence _._ The poetic justice was almost too sweet, and he felt as if she'd somehow allowed him to take his vengeance with her chosen method of execution.

 _A dog to do your killing, is that what you like, girl? How appropriate._ Sandor chuckled to himself and headed for the market.

* * *

-Sansa-

The decision had been made and there was now no use dwelling upon it. Sansa might have put up more of a fight, might have insisted upon remaining in Winterfell at any cost, but for what purpose?

Jon was right—leadership was not only something that Sansa was destined for, it was something she excelled in. She'd learned just enough from both Cersei and Littlefinger to think like the enemy, always expecting betrayal or foul play, yet she'd been raised in the North where values of honor and duty were of high importance. She was the ideal combination of her mother's caution and her father's integrity.

Even if she'd wanted to oppose the decision further than she had, Sansa had been cornered by both Jon _and_ Daenerys, a king and queen in their own rights, who had already conferred with their closest advisors on the subject. She would have been going against the rulers, against their council and with what defense? " _I don't want to go?"_ She hadn't been prepared with a convincing argument to rebut their decision and by staunchly refusing to leave, she would have only succeeded in portraying herself as both craven _and_ dishonorable.

Sansa had made the only choice she'd felt she had in the moment; she'd accepted her fate.

The prospect of leaving Winterfell, as frightening as it was for Sansa, had been emotionally upstaged by the unexpected appointment of her new sworn shield. While she did not fear Sandor Clegane by any means, she was beginning to fear his apparent _influence_ upon her. He unraveled her in a way that no one else had since she'd escaped from Ramsay's custody.

When he'd made his reappearance into her life, Sansa had told herself that he would no longer unsettle her like he used to do in the capital. She'd only been a frightened child then, after all, and she was now a woman grown, with experiences that most women could only imagine in their worst nightmares. She had determined that she would no longer stammer and shiver under his intensity like a scared _little bird._

Yet, despite everything that had changed in her life since she'd last known him, Sansa found to her annoyance that his presence _still_ disrupted her peace of mind nearly as much as it used to in the Red Keep. She had always assumed that her reactions to him in the capital had been borne of fear—fear of his harsh words and the ever-brewing anger just beneath the surface of his scarred, foreboding countenance.

But now that his effect upon her was proving to be almost the same as it had always been, she began to wonder what it could possibly mean. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she did _not_ fear him—Ramsay had taught Sansa what it meant to truly be afraid—yet why else would he unsettle her so?

Sansa found that she could make no sense of it at all and the uncertainty was highly discomfiting. The complications which Sandor Clegane introduced into her current situation only further increased her agitation about being sent away. She had _so_ relished the feeling of control which she'd exercised over herself and her circumstances in the past months, and now it was all unraveling before her—from the moment she'd first laid eyes on the Hound in the courtyard of Winterfell.

Sighing her worrisome thoughts away for the moment, Sansa picked up the small, engraved chest which contained her sewing necessities and headed to the door of her chambers. She had to get away from the mind-numbing tedium of packing, if only for just a few minutes of fresh air.

"Milady, let me take it for you," her handmaid interjected, scrambling to her feet from where she'd been kneeling on the other side of Sansa's chambers, dutifully folding linens. "It's nearly dark, you needn't trouble yourself." She reached for Sansa's burden but was quickly waved away.

"No, thank you, Mery, but I need to get out of this room for a few minutes. I desperately need a change of scenery, to look at something that isn't piles of clothing and canvas sacks for at least a moment or two."

She smiled reassuringly at the young woman who hesitated briefly before bowing and returning to her chore.

Sansa loved the bite of the crisp, Northern wind sweeping over her exposed skin every time she stepped out of doors. The frigid air revitalized her completely as she filled her lungs with a deep breath of the winter evening, allowing a smile for the first time since she'd learned she'd be forced to leave her home.

Her boots thudded loudly on the wooden planks of the upper level as she hurried toward the courtyard, the chest tucked securely beneath one arm as the other lifted her skirts so that she could move more freely. She knew she would find the wayns in the stables, still being prepared and loaded with provisions and supplies for their journey.

The caravan leaving Winterfell on the morrow would be a very large one, and even worse, would be comprised only of the very old or very young—of children younger than twelve and their great-grandparents. Of women great with child or still nursing their infants and others who would be unable to fight due to illness or disability.

It would be a caravan of the weak, with Sansa as its leader.

She grimaced at the unglamorous task to which she'd been assigned. At least they would have _some_ men-at-arms to accompany them, though few and far between. It was better than nothing.

Sansa packed the chest carefully onto her personal wayn, making sure to keep it readily accessible for when boredom would undoubtedly overtake her on the journey south. When she was satisfied with its placement, she stepped back and surveyed the very real and tangible evidence of her eviction.

She would be leaving Winterfell at first light, venturing away from the safety of her home and family into the unknown where the cruel world would take everything from her once more, just as it had done the last time she'd left the safety of its walls for the merciless South.

The cold tendrils of fear began to wrap around Sansa's chest, threatening to suffocate her in a panic-driven episode of hysteria, but she squeezed her eyes in resistance. She had learned over time to be strong, to stave off the weakness of allowing herself to fall into a state of unbridled emotional distress. She pressed a palm against her stomach as she slowly inhaled a shuddering breath, releasing it methodically through pursed lips.

Swallowing against the lump in her throat, she turned to begin the walk back to her chambers. Despite her best efforts, Sansa's vision blurred with unshed tears, obscuring the stack of items placed beside the wayn just enough for her boot to catch on it.

She stumbled, yet before she quite knew what had happened, a strong arm reached out from the shadows, catching her by the elbow and righting her.

"Ain't the first time I've saved you from falling on your face, is it?"

Sandor's husky laugh caught Sansa's attention immediately and she stifled a gasp of surprise just before it escaped her lips. Struggling to regain her composure quickly, she drew up to her full height and discreetly wiped the moisture from her eyes with her fingertips.

"I—thank you. No, it isn't." Sansa flipped her hair casually, mentally _refusing_ to allow herself to be unsettled by him. "Perhaps it's your fault I lose my balance. You always startle me." She looked up at him and frowned. "Are you following me?"

Sandor chuckled again and leaned against the wayn casually.

"Would it be out of place if I were? I'm your shield now. That's kind of my job." He grinned and crossed his arms across his broad chest.

He was right and Sansa felt as if he'd taken the wind from her sails, but she would not give in so easily.

"Well. I wouldn't say it's strictly _necessary_ while we're still inside the walls of _my_ castle." She fussed with her clothing, straightening out her skirts while trying to devise the best way to remove herself from his presence which, despite her resolution from only moments ago, was already proving to be alarmingly nerve-wracking.

 _What in the seven hells is wrong with me?_

"Isn't it? You don't think you might have ever needed greater protection within the walls of this castle?" His deep, rasping voice held a specific inference in it as he subtly probed to learn more about the sensitive topic which he had just so brazenly resurrected.

Sansa went rigid. Clenching her jaw so tightly that her teeth began to protest, she surveyed him with new suspicion before slowly giving reply.

"I don't know where you learned of that, but—"

"Is it true you killed him?"

He didn't seem at all apologetic for interrupting her as he drew himself up from his relaxed stance, unfolding his arms and taking a step toward her.

Sansa's hands balled into fists at his audacity, but she faced him boldly and lifted her chin higher.

"Yes. It is."

Sandor cocked his head, clearly amused. "We're both killers now then. Didn't I once tell you that killing was the sweetest thing there is?" He had drawn so close to her that Sansa thought she could feel the vibrations from his rasping voice traveling down her spine. "You didn't much like that then. And how do you feel now?"

She narrowed her eyes, remembering the instance to which he was referring. She knew that he had her.

How was this the only man who knew so well how to unravel her? Even Lord Baelish, though he might have flattered himself into thinking he controlled her, had never truly had power over her.

"When the killing is justice—," Sansa looked down at her hands, pondering what she'd done and thinking of the blood that would forever be on them. She gathered them into fists and tilted her face back up to his. "Yes, then it is sweet."

As she glared into the steel gray eyes which had always had unrivaled powers of penetration, Sansa suddenly realized that she shared something with this man that could not be said of any of her other companions. There was a deep understanding between them—the Hound had been her unofficial ally once, the only one who'd looked out for her at a time in her life when she'd been utterly alone and friendless.

Now as she beheld his face in the near-darkness of the winter twilight, Sansa found that the scars which had once disgusted her were almost a comforting sight. The Hound and she had a past that was known only in truth to themselves.

The realization of this bond that they unwittingly shared startled her and Sansa faltered. She blinked nervously and averted her eyes, finding that she was unable to hold his gaze any longer. Sansa stared down at her hands once again as they fidgeted restlessly in the narrow space that he'd left between their bodies. She became acutely aware of his breathing pattern, of his eyes boring a hole into the top of her head and she felt that she was becoming panicked. He was very close to her now.

 _Too close._

"He hurt you, little bird?"

Sansa's head snapped back up at the warmth in the unexpected question, spoken with a gentleness and concern that was surprising in a man like the Hound. She searched his eyes in confusion for a moment before he dropped his gaze, slowly taking hold of her hand and drawing it up between them.

Sansa gasped softly as he pulled the fabric of her sleeve back from her wrist just enough to fully reveal the long scar which traveled dangerously close to a vital vein.

"Or is this your work?"

His calloused fingers gently traced the mark along the sensitive skin, sending her pulse racing wildly.

When he lifted his eyes to hers again, she began to pull away instinctively, shocked by the depth of feeling she saw in them. Her confidence wavered as unexpected and rivaling sensations coursed through her body without warning. She suddenly felt dizzy and rather disoriented.

Snatching her hand from his grasp, Sansa breathlessly tucked it against her breast and attempted to gather her wits as best she could. She could no longer meet his gaze as she stammered an excuse to flee from him.

"I—that's—that's not a topic up for discussion. Excuse me, Clegane, I still have much to do before dawn."

She spun on her heel and fled as quickly as she could. The tears returned, but this time she did not bother to wipe them away.

* * *

-Sandor-

She was already astride her mount, a spirited, dove gray mare with hair as black as Stranger had been. It suited her—gray for Stark and the black which seemed to match her mood this morning.

Small sections of her hair was drawn back at the temples in simple braids drawing the attention to her piercing blue eyes which were set in the iciest expression he'd ever beheld on Sansa's lovely face.

Their conversation from the night before came back to Sandor vividly as his own horse fell into step behind hers, trotting through the main gatehouse of Winterfell. When he'd drawn attention to the scar, she'd closed up tighter than a virgin's cunt before fleeing from him as quickly as she could manage.

The behavior was very like that first night in the corridor when he'd escorted her to her room. The girl was running from her demons, unwilling to face any reminders which brought her back to that wretched time in her life.

He couldn't really blame her, but he also couldn't place exactly why he felt the need to continue to dredge up Sansa's past. There was something unsettled there, some unresolved issue that was eating away at him ever since he'd been reunited with her. He'd already apologized for his behavior the night of the Blackwater, but there was something beyond that single incident that he felt responsible for. He hoped that she wouldn't continue to shut him out on the entire journey south.

Sansa had already said her farewells before first light and now he and Brienne flanked her as she cantered to the front of the column where Jon and Daenerys were inspecting the caravan and giving final instructions to the men-at-arms who were to accompany them. The vast, open sky above the moors was swiftly changing from the dark blue of minutes ago to a lighter gray streaked with pink and orange as dawn approached.

Jon's horse stamped and blew impatiently where he and Daenerys—a picture of serenity on her pale, silver mare before the rising sun—waited for Sansa at the head of the great caravan of Northerners preparing to embark on their mass exodus.

When the trio reached the young king and queen, they pulled the horses to a halt and Sansa inclined her head coldly to them.

"Your grace," she spoke through clenched teeth and with forced civility as she nodded to each of them in turn, "Jon."

Sansa clasped her heavy fur cloak with a gloved hand and drew it tighter around her shoulders against the driving wind which sent tendrils of auburn hair swirling around her pink cheeks.

Jon gave her an apologetic smile, "I am forever indebted to you, Sansa, for agreeing to see our people to safety."

The words did little to thaw Sansa's icy exterior, but she forced a smile as the queen extended a sealed letter toward her.

"Lady Sansa, this document has my seal and instructions for those who will greet you on your arrival. It will ensure that you have a warm reception at your final destination."

Sansa glanced down at the parchment with a supercilious expression.

"Your grace, meaning no offense, but Westeros has not accepted you as their queen yet. Why should any lord welcome our people by _your_ request?" She met the queen's gaze resolutely, arching one elegant brow.

Daenerys lifted her chin slightly, shifting on her silver mare and stealing a quick knowing glance at Jon.

"You are certainly not lacking in powers of observation, Lady Sansa, which is always a good quality in a leader." She took a deep breath which became a sigh as she gave Sansa a pained half-smile. "You will not be staying in Westeros."

The sun chose that moment to appear on the horizon, the first rays lighting the sky behind Sansa in fiery splendor as her hands clenched the parchment more tightly. She set her jaw for the final blow.

"You are going to Meereen."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note**

 **Thank you, thank you for your patience with me while I plan my wedding and have put this story on the back burner, lol, but hopefully I've gotten a new kick now that will last for a bit. I love you for reading and reviewing!**

* * *

Chapter 5

 ** _Transparency_**

-Sansa-

 _Meereen._

Sansa scrunched up her brow and grimaced, internally cursing the headache that had been pulsing behind her eyes for the last several hours. Where in the world was Meereen anyway?

A hazy recollection of the large rendering of Essos which had hung on the wall in Maester Luwin's study briefly passed through her mind's eye as she struggled to remember the city's location on the map.

The cold wind of the early morning had long since ceased and now the sun was beating upon Sansa's aching head mercilessly. Her eyes were nearly forced shut from its strong glare off of the snow which glistened as the upmost layer melted beneath the unusual intensity of the midday rays. _Melting like me._

 _Meereen._

Meereen was near Old Valyria was it not?

 _Yes, in Slaver's Bay,_ she thought.

Sansa clenched her jaw in vexation, remembering the dragon queen's droning explanation of their journey and their ultimate destination; how they would get there and what they should expect along the way.

Yes, the queen and her _dragons_ had conquered Slaver's Bay and renamed it, but how long would it remain under her rule while she and her dragons resided half a world away?

 _And what's to prevent the rulers there from taking all of us as slaves? We'll have next to no defenses. HOW could Jon have agreed to this?!_

For what felt like the tenth time that morning Sansa jerked the reins in agitation and growled under her breath. Theirs was a ridiculous trek into the unknown, ordered by a child queen, seconded by her own brother—no, cousin who arguably had a greater claim than Daenerys—and Sansa had no choice but to follow unless she chose to forfeit all of her honor and abandon her people.

She sighed and closed her eyes as her head continued pounding.

Turning in the saddle, Sansa shielded her eyes with one hand and cast a scathing glance at the trail of smallfolk at her heels.

Weakness, as far as the eye could see.

Brienne had left a few minutes before to conduct a routine check-in with the flank of the caravan and Sansa pretended to be looking for her return.

She wasn't.

She was letting the hopelessness of her situation wash over her as fully as possible so she could continue to justify her misery.

But these were still her people and she had a duty to them. It was something she could just see her father saying to one of his sons. It was always supposed to be one of his sons, never her. She was supposed to marry a prince and live happily ever after. She was supposed to be a lady and start a family of her own.

Family, duty, honor.

Mother's no-nonsense voice was as fresh in Sansa's memory as the words of Daenerys from only that morning. She lifted her chin.

Sansa _would_ do her duty, but she would not do it blindly as her father had done, nor proudly and properly as her mother might have. She would learn everything that she could on the journey to the _Bay of Dragons._ She would watch and she would plan. She would do as Littlefinger might have done and maneuver the very people whom she was asking for refuge. Sansa would not leave her people, the people of the North, to a chance fate. She would remain one step ahead at all times. But _unlike_ Littlefinger, she would not do it for her _own_ ends, but to protect her people. For family. For duty. For honor.

For the North, because Winter had come.

As she rotated back to her original position in the saddle, her gaze fell upon her new shield who flanked her on her left side. He had been staring at her, and now that she'd caught him at it he made no effort to conceal it, instead allowing a slow grin to pull at the twisted flesh of his burned face.

"Making sure we're all still here, little bird?"

Sansa snorted in a manner that might have mortified her own self of years past.

"Why wouldn't you all still be here? We get to go to _Meereen_. Who would ever want to miss out on such an _opportunity?"_ She made no attempt to conceal her sarcasm; she was in a foul mood and everyone knew it.

Sansa saw the muscles clench in his jaw as the Hound's expression soured. He spat across the body of his horse.

"Aye. Meereen. The bitch might've mentioned that before they'd asked if I'd be your shield."

Sansa jerked her head to catch his expression, her stomach briefly tightening into a ball of anxiety before she felt the humiliation of displaying such an interested and overeager reaction. She made an effort at nonchalance and hoped he hadn't noticed; why should she care anyway if he might have declined?

Nevertheless, he chuckled at her. "Not to worry, I'd still have accepted, little bird. I've seen the army of the dead. I'll take slavers over that any day."

The pounding in Sansa's head was increasing by the moment and was now joined by a wave of frustration at herself for her transparency. She lashed out at the easiest target.

"Why do you still insist upon calling me that? We're not in King's Landing anymore. I'm nobody's bird. It's not even my sigil," Sansa's voice was full of disdain and the look she gave him might have withered a smaller man.

He didn't answer for a moment, but she could feel his eyes upon the side of her head as she forced her attention on the road before them. The glare was worse than ever and she tried to focus on anything other than the pulsing pain behind her eyes. She thought she saw him shrug in her periphery.

"Don't know. Just sounds right. Your sister's the wolf-girl, and it suits her now just as it did before. But you—aye you've changed, sure." He snorted before continuing, "Still, it's just what I've always called you."

Sansa ignored the unpleasant rolling of her stomach, the strange sensations that surfaced when he spoke of her with a specific _warmth_ in his tone that was beguiling to her.

"Well you might try calling me by my name, which is Sansa, if you can't manage to use my formal title as you should." She knew she'd donned one of her iciest expressions and hoped that he might take her more seriously for it.

Instead he laughed, even heartier now than before, as he was apparently enjoying the direction of their conversation.

"I know your name's Sansa, bird." Another chuckle. "Bloody hell, you're still as uptight as ever."

Her head _pounded._

Clenching her jaw tightly, Sansa jerked her mare sideways into the path of his mount, effectively bringing both to a halt. The surprise on his face was evident, but she didn't allow even a moment for him to process what was happening. Blue eyes flashing, Sansa laid into him mercilessly.

"Why do you presume to speak to me like that? We're not in the south anymore, _Clegane._ You're not Joffrey's dog anymore, you're _mine_ , and you owe me the respect you gave him, which was little enough as it were! I am not your _little bird_ anymore, I am _Lady_ Stark and you'll treat me as you would any other lord or lady to whom you owed your service!"

Sandor glared down at her during the unexpected outburst, the muscles of his jaw working soundlessly. When she'd spoken her final words, he narrowed his eyes as he searched her face with an expression both of incredulity and anger. For a moment she thought he would lash out at her in a rage.

Finally he tilted his head almost imperceptibly. "As you wish, _Lady Stark,"_ he growled.

Sansa inhaled deeply and sat up straighter, giving him one last scathing look before directing her mare back onto the road in a deep and uncomfortable silence.

Though relieved that Brienne had not been present to witness their heated interactions, Sansa found herself wishing that the other woman would return as soon as possible. The pressure in her head was now overwhelming and she desperately wanted something, anything with which to occupy her mind other than the building sense of dread and absolute misery which now threatened to engulf her completely.

* * *

-Sandor-

The caravan made poor time the first day, and by midafternoon Lady Stark affirmed that they would be spending the night at Castle Cerwyn. The castle was close enough to Winterfell as to be half a day's ride under normal circumstances, but the pace of their group was painstakingly slow and Sansa reasoned they may as well use the shelter while they still had it. Its noble inhabitants had already departed for Winterfell excepting all those who would join their caravan on the journey south.

After Sansa's outburst earlier that day, Sandor's mood had turned sour and he remained in a sullen silence until they reached the castle. Traveling with such a collection of wailing babes, stinking animals, and hormonal women was bad enough on any day, but Sansa's moods were beginning to grate on him. She was no longer a miserable girl shrouded in silence as she once had been, she was now a miserable woman who'd found her voice, _and_ a position of authority over him.

A small voice told him that he should give allowance for the extreme stress which she was under, having been forced within a day to leave her comfortable home and travel to a foreign land with thousands of women and children in tow who were under her charge to protect. But Sandor tended toward aggravation easier than most, and the belief had settled firmly in his mind that Sansa Stark had become a gigantic pain in his arse.

After supper and the tedium of settling such a massive group down at the castle and on the grounds beyond it, Sandor allowed Brienne to take the first shift at Sansa's door while he set his sights to discovering the whereabouts of the Cerwyns' ale. He helped himself to a tankard and joined some of the other men at cards, eager to rid himself of the company of _women_ for as long as he could.

He was apparently not the only man who'd had enough of the wailing of women and children, and the other men bitched and moaned about it so thoroughly that by the third game, Sandor himself was beginning to be done hearing about it. He tossed his coins to the victor and stood, downing the last of his ale before heading in the direction of the lord's chambers where Sansa had retired for the night.

Brienne regarded him with disinterest as he approached, which was her usual awkward manner of behavior. He gestured with his head in the direction from whence he'd come.

"Go and get some rest, I'll take watch. Is the lady sleeping?"

The huge woman shifted her stance, her face revealing a small hint of uncertainty.

"I suppose. Lady Sansa seems a bit—distracted this evening. I have not heard anything from her since she entered shortly after supper, not even to bid goodnight."

Sandor frowned and snorted. "Distracted. Aye, sure, 'f that's what you want to call it. I call it being a cunt."

Brienne glared at him, "You should not speak that way about your Lady."

He ignored her reprimand, but old habits had him persist further in his inquiry.

"When was the last time you saw her?"

His fellow shield frowned her disapproval, but nevertheless responded, "Lady Sansa asked for a skin of wine from the cellars and I have not seen her since the maidservant brought it to the door at least two hours ago."

"Wine in her bedroom?" Sandor snorted again. "When I knew the girl she hardly touched the stuff at feasts, does she often drink alone in her room now?"

Brienne began to look uncomfortable, "Well, no, not usually. That's what I mean, she's been different today."

Despite his overall annoyance at Sansa from their interactions that afternoon, Sandor was becoming exasperated at Brienne's carelessness.

"The girl asks for an entire skin of wine, completely out of character for her after receiving the information we all received this morning and you've not thought to check on her? Seven hells, woman, what do you think people _do_ with wine?"

"She has not left the room, I've been here ever since!"

"Has she not?" He shot back with rising impatience, "You realize there's never only one entrance to a lord's chambers, don't you?" He glared at Brienne who was slowly processing his words as he rapped on the door.

"Lady Stark, are you well?"

When no response was heard, Brienne's eyes grew wide and lines of worry creased her brow. Sandor knocked roughly once more before pushing through the door.

"Lady Stark? Sansa, are you in here?"

The room was empty.

Sandor turned to Brienne whose face was an image of mortification at her own carelessness. She looked as though she might be sick.

Gripping her upper arm, he quickly growled an order, "Don't let anyone see your purpose, the last thing she needs is these cunts questioning her. Check all the other quarters and the kitchens. I'll search the grounds. Go!"

Brienne jerked her head in a quick nod before fleeing the room while Sandor searched for the other exit. He found it quickly, just behind a curtain near the privy. It was just a small door which the servants could use to access the chambers at times, or as an emergency exit should the lord or lady ever need one. He slipped through the narrow opening and into the cramped passageway, hurrying past several other doors to a small stairwell which led to the lower floor of the castle.

Sandor was furious at himself for his negligence, even though he knew that this was primarily Brienne's mistake. That the woman could have sat there for hours without even checking to ensure Sansa was not drinking herself into oblivion was beyond him. Clearly she had not spent much of her time as a sworn shield.

Pushing through the final door at the end of the corridor, Sandor found himself in the kitchens. He raked a hand through his tangled mane of hair as he scanned his surroundings.

"If I was a bitter, drunk Sansa where the fuck would I go?"

It came to him quickly, a memory of a slight of a girl with her long skirts and flaming hair streaming behind her as she hurried back to her chambers from the godswood. It was always the godswood with her.

Sandor quickly made for the modest religious sanctuary situated along the north wall of the castle. When he stepped past the carved wooden columns which marked the entrance, he immediately spotted the pair of small, fresh footprints in the snow that trailed in the direction of the heart tree. He followed them rapidly around a bend in the path until he had a clear line of sight to the large, white weirwood and the small, white figure leaning against it with her eyes closed.

Sansa's hair was tousled and her cloak was drenched from the snow which she was sprawled upon, her back barely propped up against the base of the huge tree. She still clenched the wineskin in her bright red fingers, showing just how long she'd been exposed to the cold with minimal protection.

He ran to her, his pulse racing and not from exertion.

"Sansa! What in the seven hells were you thinking?" Sandor gripped her shoulders and shook her as a wild thought suddenly took hold of him that she might never awaken.

When she groaned, he released the breath of tension he'd been holding, unwilling to admit to himself how terrified she'd made him in that moment. Kneeling before her, he snatched up her bare hands between his.

"Your hands are ice, girl, do you want to lose your fingers? Fucking hell." He searched her face, taking note of the color of her skin and wondering how long she'd been outside. He didn't want to imagine what might have happened if he hadn't thought to check for her.

Mumbling something unintelligible, Sansa slowly lifted heavy eyelids as if it took a great effort to do so and struggled to focus on his face. One look into her glazed, unfocused eyes told him that she was completely and unequivocally drunk.

"The…Hound?" She squinted at him while pulling the wineskin across her lap in an apparent attempt to bring it back to her lips.

"Give me this," Sandor snatched the wretched sack of wine from her slack fingers. It was far lighter than he had expected, and he gaped at her.

"For fuck's sake, girl, you drank the whole thing?"

Sansa's grin stretched lazily across her face. "Of course. I needed to." Her eyes closed again and her head bobbed forward, leaving her chin nearly resting on her chest.

"Fucking hells." Sandor shrugged his own cloak off and threw it over her before grasping both her hands in his again and vigorously rubbing warmth back into them.

Sansa scrunched up her brow. "Why are you mad at me? You like wine."

Grinding his teeth in impatience, Sandor sat back on his heels and looked her in the eye as he tugged her away from the tree.

"Come, we need to get you back to the room, you're freezing."

"No!" Sansa jerked her hands from his grasp and leaned away from him, falling onto one elbow with her back still against the tree. "I belong here. In the North. In this tree." Her eyelids closed once more and her head lolled backward.

Sandor growled and gripped her by the upper arm, pulling her back into a semi-upright position. "Sansa, we—"

"No!" She began to fight him, flailing and pushing at him pathetically with limbs weakened both from strongwine and the cold. "You can't! You're just like all of them! Don't touch me, I don't belong to you!" Her words were slurred and her motions clumsy.

He held onto her, understanding the urgency to get her out of the snow as quickly as possible. "Stop fighting me you stupid cunt, you have to get out of the cold!"

"NO!" There was panic setting in behind her eyes—the wild, unpredictable panic of the inebriated. "You _can't_ touch me! You're just like them, I _knew_ you were like them. Get your HANDS OFF OF ME!"

Sandor grabbed her roughly by both shoulders and leaned in until his face was inches from hers, his eyes flashing. "Shut your fucking mouth woman, do you want this whole camp to hear you in the state you're in?"

"I won't!" She writhed in his grasp, furious and irrational. "Let GO OF ME!"

If she continued shouting they'd have men-at-arms rushing in any moment and assuming the worst. Exasperated, Sandor finally released his hold of her and Sansa tumbled away from him, falling nearly on her face into the snow. Before he could gather his wits to try another method, Sansa flung herself up against the tree again and tucked her knees up to her chest, fixing him in a cold and livid glare.

"I'm not a child anymore, Clegane! I know why you came to my room!" Sansa spat her words out with venom, "I know you meant to rape me! You would have used me just like every fucking man ever did!" Her speech was disjointed and she swayed as she spoke, hardly able to maintain an upright position.

Discussing that night in this way was the last thing Sandor wanted to do. He needed to get her back inside the castle, but he had to calm her down to accomplish that. With a deep sigh he resigned himself to doing this her way and sat down against the tree, making sure to leave a space between them. He leaned his forearms against his knees and looked up into the canopy, trying to determine how best to answer her.

After a brief moment of silence in which Sansa's eyes had begun to close again, he responded.

"I don't know what I meant to do that night, Sansa. I wasn't—myself."

She pulled her face up from where it had been resting on her knees and gave him a look that held all of the hatred that she bore in her soul for all of the wrongs that men had done to her over the years. This was hardly fair, he would be held to trial for all of them, but he knew he would not get rationality from this drunken, livid redhead at the moment. He picked at the dirt beneath his fingernails.

"Didn't I already apologize for this?"

She began to shake violently, but whether it was from cold or emotion, Sandor couldn't say. Her voice became muffled when she buried her face in the cloak so that he could barely make out her words.

"You—m—meant to rape me. You kissed me and m—made me sing for you." Sansa made a strange choking sound as if she were on the edge of breaking down altogether.

Sandor scoffed and stared incredulously at her, "Kissed you? I never kissed you, woman."

She continued to sway as she sat beside him, pausing in her retort and fighting to keep her eyes open as she processed the information with a sluggish mind.

"You said a dog never lies."

"For fuck's sake, I'm not lying, Sansa. I don't know what—"

He was interrupted as Sansa suddenly threw herself in the opposite direction and began vomiting into the snow.

"Fucking hells." Sandor muttered, with more pity than agitation this time. He got up and crouched beside her as she heaved, using one hand to try to keep her long hair from falling in it and the other to hold back the cloak he'd given her with little success. Sansa coughed and spluttered as she spat the last of the wine-colored bile from her mouth and then leaned back against the tree again, exhausted and struggling to catch her breath.

Pulling a square of cloth from his pocket, Sandor sighed and dabbed at her mouth gently. "Here, use this."

She took the handkerchief and clumsily wiped her mouth and nose with it before falling perfectly still, so that for a moment Sandor thought she might have dozed off.

Then she lifted her head, blue eyes swimming with tears as they looked directly into his with a pitiful kind of sorrow written in them. She choked on a sob, but held his gaze. "Why did you stop?"

Something twisted inside of his chest when she looked at him in that way. He knitted his brows, more confused than ever, but with a newborn, desperate urge to make things right for her if he could.

"What are you talking about?"

She drew in a shuddering breath, and when she spoke her voice cracked, "You stopped when I sang for you. I made you cry." She grabbed the front of his jerkin in a sudden movement and pulled him closer, her eyes suddenly intense and desperate, tears flowing freely down her red, pinched cheeks.

"Why? I want to know," she sobbed. "I've always wanted to know."

Sandor lost all cognizant thought for a moment as he leaned over her, supporting his weight against the tree while she pulled him uncomfortably closer to her. She was a juxtaposition of strength and weakness, this woman who had survived a life of unspeakable horrors and was a great leader in the North, while still having all the appearance of a helpless girl, crumbling beneath the weight of her trauma. Her eyes were full of desperation and sincerity, despite her current state of mind, and Sandor was momentarily stunned into silence.

Another sob pulled him back into the moment and he reached down impulsively to wipe a tear from her cheek with his thumb. "Little bird…don't cry."

She closed her eyes and sent new streams flowing down her face, following in the paths of those that had come before. When she opened them again, she looked straight through him. "Tell me. Please," she whispered.

He looked down and pried the handkerchief he'd given her from her cold fingers.

"Maybe one day I'll tell you." He began to wipe the tears from her cheeks, gently as if he might break her. "Not like this."

Sansa gripped his wrist, preventing him from continuing and forcing him to look her in the eyes. She lowered her voice, in the very intentional way that is specific to small children and the very drunk.

"I _need_ to know. It's important."

He chuckled despite the circumstance, seeing _Lady Stark_ speaking to him so ridiculously. Sandor sighed and searched her face, struggling to give her an answer that would not require him to delve into one of the most complicated moments of his life while she was in such a state.

"I'll make you a deal," he said finally, as he took her hand and stroked the cold little palm briefly with his thumb. "When you're ready to talk about this," he traced a line to her wrist, pulling slightly at her sleeve so he could touch the scar he'd found there the night before, "then I'll tell you about that night." He searched her eyes for recognition, hoping she could be prevailed upon to finally listen to reason.

"Deal?"

Sansa stared at him blankly, her body swaying slightly as she narrowed her eyes while she considered his proposal. Finally she nodded meekly and closed her eyes, leaning back against the weirwood trunk once more, looking utterly defeated.

Sandor stood and looked around him, wondering how he should try to move her and whether she would cooperate this time.

"I'm cold, Sandor."

At hearing her small, weakened voice speak his given name with such helplessness, Sandor felt a stab of emotion stirring in his chest, giving rise to feelings he had not experienced for many years. He turned back and crouched before her again.

"I know. Come."

She reached for him and he gathered her in his arms easily. The wineskin and her sodden cloak still lay at the trunk of the tree, but he would return for them later. For now, Sansa was cooperating, and she was silent which meant he could get her back to the safety of the lord's chamber without the camp being any wiser to her condition.

As he carried her back into the castle, Sandor couldn't prevent the memories of that night from pushing their way back into his mind. The unearthly green of the wildfire lighting the skies, the glint of his steel against her pale neck. He shook his head, but the memories were unmoved. Young Sansa's voice, shaking with fear as she sang for him the Mother's hymn—the song he had never expected from her. And the raw, violent emotion that had flooded his being in that moment.

Sansa whimpered in his arms as her head flopped backwards and Sandor shifted her position so that she could lean her head in against him. As he did, she reached her hand across his chest and gripped behind his neck with cold, delicate fingers, nestling her head into the space beneath his collarbone.

"Nearly there, little bird," he mumbled, trying to distract his thoughts from settling on the way his pulse was racing at her closeness, and how acutely aware he was of her fingertips on his skin.

"I shouldn't have yelled at you," she mumbled against his chest. "For calling me that."

He looked down at her as they neared her chambers. Her eyes were closed again as she lay just beneath his shoulder, but her lips were still moving.

In the tiniest whisper Sansa admitted, "I like being your 'little bird.'"

He had no idea if she'd meant for him to hear it, or how conscious she even really was, but he smiled despite himself as he pushed the door backward into her chambers.

"Seven hells, girl, you're confusing," he grumbled, depositing her gently against the pillows. "Don't fall asleep, you need to get out of those wet clothes. I'll get Brienne."

He might as well have spoken to the floor for all the good it did. Sansa Stark was out cold.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN**

 **Hi all! Once again, I thank you for your patience. I want this story to flow naturally, to feel authentic to the characters, so I wait for the muse to come. When it hits, I write.**

 **Also I have decided to change the rating to M as it will get to that level in later chapters, but you'll have to be very patient, this is going to be a slow burn. Thank you always for your encouragement and feedback!**

* * *

Chapter 6

 _ **Omission**_

~Sansa~

As Sansa slowly regained consciousness, she became painfully aware first of the throbbing pain in her head, followed by an overwhelming urge to relieve herself.

Groaning at the brightness against her eyelids, she cracked an eye open and realized immediately that it was at least several hours past dawn, which was the time she'd instructed Brienne to have her awakened.

 _What has happened?_

Feeling as if her bladder might burst, Sansa threw the coverlet off of her lower body, her sweating limbs immediately cooled by the blast of morning air.

Suddenly the events of the night before rushed back into her mind in a wave of horrifying remembrance. She saw the wineskin in her hand, the weirwood tree. Sandor's shoulder as she lay against it.

 _No…_

Fighting him. Weeping at him.

 _Gods, no…_

Vomiting. Begging him.

 _Oh, Mother have mercy, what did I do?_

The order of events was disjointed, but there was no doubt in her mind that she'd made an utter fool of herself last night. Sansa groaned in dismay as she slipped out of bed, her stomach rolling in a wave of nausea as she made her way to the privy.

 _"When you're ready to talk about this, I'll tell you about that night."_

 _No! This can't be real, tell me it was just a dream!_

Yet she knew it had not been. She remembered the cold of the snow as it numbed her extremities, the taste of the vomit which still lingered in her mouth, causing her stomach to churn unpleasantly. Sansa put a trembling hand to her brow as she emptied her bladder, desperately trying to piece together her shameful memories from the night before.

 _He carried me back here! Oh, gods, what else did I say to him?_ She buried her face in her hands as she fought back the urge to both weep and empty her stomach once more. How could she have been such a fool?

 _What did I say to him?_

With fresh horror, the worst memory of all flashed through her mind.

 _The kiss! No, no, no! I can't have said that to him! I can't, I can't._

She knew she had, and Sansa threw herself face-down onto the bed, clenching her eyes shut as if she could squeeze away everything that she'd done and said the night before. She didn't know if she'd ever felt so humiliated in her entire life. And now she'd have to face him after bringing up such an inappropriate subject!

She lifted her head from the bedding and wrinkled her brow as she remembered his firm denial of it. That surprised her. The Hound never lied.

 _Why would he have denied that? He did kiss me. I remember his cruel lips against mine..._

Confused and ashamed, Sansa rolled onto her back, allowing her aching body to sprawl without care. Aside from the humiliation of having made a tremendous fool of herself, she'd also failed her people on the very first day of her mission. Everyone would know.

 _Wouldn't they?_

She wasn't certain, and found that she must speak with Brienne at once to determine the full level of damage that she'd done to her reputation.

Sansa crept silently to the door, noting as she did so that she was dressed in her sleeping shift and wondering how that had come to be when the last person whom she remembered in her room had been Sandor.

 _Not Sandor, he's the Hound. Sandor is too familiar._

She cracked the door open, expecting to see Brienne seated next to it as she'd left her the night before. Instead the Hound's intense, gray eyes turned on her immediately with concern.

"Lady Stark." He looked as if he couldn't decide whether to be amused or nervous. "Are you feeling all right?"

He _knew_ she wasn't, and now she could see that his humor was barely suppressed beneath his rugged countenance. Sansa was agitated that he could make light of such a situation when he must know that she was _mortified._

"Where is Brienne?" She demanded, hardly opening the door enough to reveal even one eye. She wanted to hide, and to stay hidden from him forever. The protection that the door offered her, though little, was the only thing sparing her pride at the moment from being shattered completely.

"She went for the maester once we heard you awaken. Thought you may want something for the headache." He grinned and looked down at the hilt of his sword, clearly trying to suppress his amusement and failing miserably.

Sansa groaned in humiliation, "What?"

The Hound turned to catch Sansa's one exposed eye with the same satisfied smirk, "You probably don't even remember, but you had a fair amount to drink last night."

She glimpsed a way out of her predicament and took it without hesitation.

"No I—I don't remember. I didn't realize how strong that wine was. And I had eaten almost no supper, it was foolish of me." She looked at him suspiciously, as she allowed the door to open the smallest bit more, emboldened by her new shield of feigned ignorance. "What happened?"

Sandor's expression changed to one of hesitation as he apparently mulled over how much he should reveal of her behavior. Sansa almost felt guilty for the lie—after all, he'd been very honest with her last night.

 _And gentle._

Still, he simply _couldn't_ know that she remembered what she'd done and said to him while she'd been drunk. It would only create a huge chasm of awkward behavior between them. Let him think she had no recollection of it, and it would be _almost_ as if it hadn't truly happened.

Almost.

Sansa allowed the door to open fully as she probed hesitantly, "I—I hope I didn't do anything shameful…as _some_ do when they overdrink." She raised an eyebrow impertinently, allowing her little jab to reach its intended target, and feeling a slight twinge of regret when she saw his jaw clench.

 _I've gone too far, he'll remind me of everything I did now._

The Hound turned until he was fully facing Sansa and briefly assessed her, his expression soured. His gaze passed back and forth between her eyes until she finally looked away, hoping the chagrin she felt was not evident on her face.

"No, Sansa, you didn't do anything to be ashamed of."

A fresh wave of guilt washed over her as the Hound proved himself to be the least petty of the two, but Sansa didn't have time to fully process it. In the next moment, Brienne arrived with the wrinkled old maester in tow, the oldest maester Sansa knew. He belonged to Castle Cerwyn, but would be heading south with the caravan. Winterfell's maester and several others from neighboring castles would remain with the army, where their skills would be sorely needed. Sansa's caravan would only have two—Maester Fennec from Barrowton, and the old man pushing into her room now, Maester Edmynd.

"Lady Stark," the maester croaked, stretching a cold and wrinkled hand immediately across her brow once he'd reached her. "This—er—lady has told me you may be feeling unwell this morning. No fever, I see, that's good, though you are looking a mite pale today," he pushed into her room without waiting for an invitation. "Come, sit, sit. Tell me your complaints."

The old man stretched his hand in the direction of a small bench and ushered Sansa toward it.

Feeling rather uncomfortable at the attention which would only serve to further highlight her evening of indignity, Sansa glanced nervously to the doorway where Brienne and the Hound now stood, the latter with his arms crossed over his broad chest and the same look of amusement barely hidden beneath his full beard. She wished they would leave and close the door, but the maester was fussing so completely over her that she could hardly get a word in edgewise.

"My lord, I—I'm really fairly well, although I do have a headache. And—and some nausea," Sansa felt more ridiculous by the moment and was on the edge of asking that she just be left alone.

"You're with child, perhaps, Lady Stark?"

Sansa blanched, horrified at the suggestion, and her eyes grew wide in disbelief. At the same moment she thought she glimpsed the Hound briefly mirroring her own expression.

"No, my lord! Certainly not!" Sansa frowned, completely humiliated and disgusted at the entire string of events, though she knew the fault was wholly her own. "I've only…overindulged in drink last night. I fear that I was not prepared for the strongwine of Castle Cerwyn."

The maester's toothy smile seemed to overtake his entire face upon hearing the backhanded praise of his home.

"Aye, lady Stark, you'll not find better wine than in the cellars of the Cerwyns, and the lord does like it strong. We'll get you feeling right in no time. My lady," here he addressed Brienne, "have the servants bring hot water, I will prepare some tonic for lady Stark."

As Brienne nodded and reached for the handle to close the door, Sansa's eyes locked with the Hound's and the laughter in his eyes was almost too much to bear. She clenched her jaw and exhaled a breath of exasperation, wanting nothing more than to wipe the last twenty-four hours completely out of existence.

* * *

-Sandor-

It was the third afternoon since Sansa had drunken herself directly into his arms, and the caravan was finally settling into a steady groove of continuous travel. Although they did not depart from Castle Cerwyn on that first day—in part due to the lady's illness, and in part to the arrival of more travelers from the North joining their party—by the following morning the people of the North had resumed their journey to White Harbor.

Lady Sansa avoided Sandor even more now than she already had, as much as one can avoid one's own personal guard. He couldn't quite understand her behavior as, by her own admission, she remembered nothing of that night and he'd so gallantly assured her that there was nothing of which she should be ashamed. Perhaps she was only ashamed for allowing herself to become drunk in the first place.

 _Which is something she'd do, punish herself for acting like a normal human being for once in her life. Always has to be fucking perfect, that one._

A part of Sandor was disappointed that the intimate encounter which they'd shared, despite her less than appropriate state of mind, would only be remembered and thus seemingly only experienced by himself. Yet another part was relieved that he no longer had to uphold his end of the deal they'd made. He was loathe to reveal to her or anyone else the difficult truth of what had occurred in that moment so long ago when Sansa had sang to him the Mother's Hymn through her terror.

His current train of thought was interrupted by the appearance of a scout hurrying over the ridge in his return to the caravan, apparently bearing some news. It was a young lad, perhaps eight or nine years of age, but he rode the donkey as if he had been born on its back. Sansa herself had suggested that some of the more rambunctious boys who were like to cause trouble should be given tasks that they could perform to the benefit of all, rather than being left to their own mischief. Many of them had been made scouts, sent on ahead a mile or two of the caravan on all sides, usually two at a time. Others had been set to hunting, and others to gathering firewood, and so on.

What had surprised Sandor the most, however, was that Sansa had insisted that the girls be assigned the same tasks as the boys if they showed any interest. Several of them had, and their wide, childish eyes fixed on lady Sansa in reverent awe had been an image that had stuck in Sandor's mind long after. He supposed that, despite being the lady herself in every sense of the word, Sansa had grown accustomed to accommodating the tomboyish tendencies of her younger sister.

The lad approached them now and Brienne rode out ahead of the trio to meet him. Though the words could not be made out from such a distance, the boy's gestures and intensity led Sandor to believe that he'd found something worth investigating not far ahead. Brienne eventally nodded and directed the lad to return to the group before cantering back to report the news.

"Lady Sansa, the boy has spotted at least two travelers in the distance. He believes them to be knights by their appearance and they're not more than a mile out by his description. Both are mounted and armed," Brienne had been made for moments like this and she fully immersed herself in the drama, much to Sandor's scorn. "Allow me to take some men and bring them into custody until we can determine that they're not a threat to our party," Brienne implored.

 _Yes, allow the bitch to go before she fucking climaxes all over us._ He rolled his eyes and snorted to himself.

Sansa cast Sandor an inquiring look, apparently seeking his opinion on the matter, so he gave a brief nod of assent. She turned her attention back to Brienne.

"Very well. Take five men, and be careful. Fly my banner, I want no fighting if it can be helped. Gods know we need every man we have."

If Sansa was nervous, she did not show it, and Sandor was mildly impressed at her caution and presence of mind, even if he didn't think two bloody _knights_ were much cause for concern.

"Of course, my lady." Brienne dipped her head respectfully before galloping off to gather her assignment of men, leaving Sansa alone with him for almost the first time since Sandor had spoken to her at her door back at Castle Cerwyn.

Judging by her body language, Sansa had come to the same realization and was trying not to appear uncomfortable, though she clearly was.

Sandor grinned to himself, still pleased that he had the power to affect her moods and provoke her to agitation. Ever since he'd first laid on eyes on the young lady Stark he'd felt an almost irresistible desire to incite her delicate, lady's outrage at every opportunity.

"Knights, the boy said. That should please you, litt—Lady Stark." Sandor caught himself, remembering both Sansa's impassioned admonition of him using the moniker and also her private confession to him about it. Still, he would not call her by the affectionate title again until she asked it of him, or so he'd stubbornly told himself.

Sansa eyed him over her shoulder and sighed.

"Clegane, do you want an _official_ admission from me? You'll never let me live it down, I was little more than a girl." She turned to face him with a mild expression of exasperation. "Very well. Sandor Clegane, you were right about knights." She gestured with her head toward the caravan, "See if you can't find a scholar back there to take it down on parchment for you, I'll put my seal on it and you can have it as proof for all time that I've admitted it. Does _that_ please you?"

Despite her tone, he thought there was a flicker of amusement, possibly even playfulness, hiding in her deep blue eyes.

Sandor grinned. "Well, I think it _would_ please me, but then I'd have nothing to pester you about. This journey is boring as shit and a man's got to keep his mind active or it'll freeze in this buggering cold North of yours."

The smallest chuckle left Sansa's lips, and the sound of it quickened Sandor's pulse. Was she actually enjoying his company, if only for a moment? He couldn't remember if he'd seen her laugh even once since being in her company again. The sound was extremely endearing, and he found himself determined to draw more laughter out of her.

"I suppose I could just tease you about _that_ _thing_ you said when you were wasted as a fucking camp follower," he drawled, feigning thoughtfulness.

Sansa's auburn head whipped around as she fixed him in a horrified stare. "What? I did not—what do you mean?"

The poor woman wanted to refute it desperately, but had no idea what had happened which was precisely the effect he'd been going for.

"Ah, it was nothing," he rasped slyly.

Sansa frowned at him, likely trying to determine how to take control of the situation. When he didn't pursue it further, she pouted.

"I'm not amused. You told me before that I'd done nothing of which to be ashamed. What happened to 'a dog never lies?'"

It seemed to Sandor that she was trying her very best to look offended.

"Oh no, it's nothing to be ashamed of, don't fret about that. Still worth a tease," he replied with a grin.

Sansa glared at him. "You're as annoying as Arya."

He laughed loudly at that. "Annoying as the little wolf-bitch? That's not possible, I spent months with that little worm. There's not a person on any continent more annoying than that water-dancing, list-quoting little cunt," he complained, though not with any real contempt.

Sansa allowed a chuckle again, "Well, we agree on something."

She eyed him seriously, as if she was puzzling over the answer to something, but was uncertain if she should ask. Finally curiosity won out over propriety.

"Arya told me that you kept her in your custody for so long for the ransom that she'd bring. But that's not true is it?"

Sandor's grin faded as he met her inquiring stare. _A dog would never lie to you._

"No, not really. Was just trying to help her get back to her family, though she fought me every step of the way, the stupid cunt."

Sansa was silent for a moment as she processed his reply.

"Why would you want to help her?"

He was growing uncomfortable at the new direction of conversation and shifted uneasily in his saddle. Discussing serious topics which delved into his character or conscience were not experiences he sought out or particularly enjoyed.

"I don't fucking know, cause she was just a child?"

Sansa persisted. "But you tried to help me as well. In King's Landing."

Sandor frowned, "Aye and what's your point?"

She shrugged, "Just that you're not the big, cruel brute that you pretend to be. You have a soft side."

Unsure of how to take her comment, Sandor responded brusquely.

"Every fucking person in the world has a soft side. I was a child once too. I had a family before my brother took everything from me." He didn't try to keep the bitterness from his voice as he spat across his horse upon mention of his vile sibling.

Sansa observed him thoughtfully.

"Perhaps. But he didn't take everything. You still have your life."

He looked up quickly and caught her gaze, but found only sincerity written upon her lovely face as she gave him the smallest of smiles before turning her attention back to the road ahead.

Sandor was temporarily stunned. While Sansa had said that he still had his life, he'd actually taken away a very different understanding from the moment—an awareness of what he truly valued that his brother had not been able to take from him.

He still had _her_.

* * *

-Sansa-

He was unshaven and rather frumpled from travel, but his face was unmistakable.

"Ser Jaime. I must say, you are the last man I would have expected to find traveling nearly alone on the road to Winterfell. Explain yourself." Sansa had dismounted and was standing before the handsome Lannister who was flanked on both sides by a rather unraveled Brienne, and two other Stark men.

Jaime Lannister pulled a sly, mischievous grin onto his face as he responded.

"Is that my little brother's wife? By the gods, Lady Sansa, if I'd known you'd turn out so beautiful I'd have demanded my father give you to me instead of my brother," he grinned boldly at her as he tossed his long blonde hair from his eyes so that he could eye her figure without obstruction.

"You've lost your hand already, Ser, but it was not your sharpest weapon. I can have that removed now," Sansa threatened, casting a sidelong glance at the Hound to show she was not bluffing. The man who stood before her did not fool her with his handsome face and smooth jests as he once had. Jaime Lannister was one of her family's deadliest enemies.

Jaime raised both hands in mock surrender, glancing at the Hound as he did so. "Well, seems you have a new dog to do your bidding. Clegane, I can't say I blame you for switching sides, this one is even more beautiful than my sister. Does she throw a bone or two your way when you please her?" He winked at Sansa.

The Hound growled beside her and Sansa bristled at the inference, despite feeling a blush rising to her cheeks at the suggestion. She cursed her body for its involuntary reactions.

"Ser Jaime, hold your tongue!" Brienne turned on him harshly, eyes wide and alarmed. "Lady Sansa is my mistress and I will not allow you to dishonor her like this!"

Jaime raised his hands in defense once more. "All right, all right. Just a little fun," he pouted. "I'm sick to death of only Bronn's company." Glancing resignedly at Sansa, he continued. "Forgive me for my sense of humor, Lady Stark, my father always did say it would be the death of me. The truth is I've come all this way to be of service to your brother." He shifted his feet and glanced at Brienne, "I have some news which I'm sure he'd _love_ to hear as regards a certain agreement made by my own _dear sister_ which she no longer wishes to honor."

Sansa's stomach lurched at the news, but she maintained her composure, crossing her arms over her chest as she responded contemptuously, "And why should my brother accept anything that you would tell him as the truth? As I recall you have been responsible for injury to more than one of my kin. Why shouldn't I have you executed here?"

To Sansa's mild surprise, Jaime actually seemed agitated at the reminder, "My lady, you are not wrong, but much has changed since the times that you speak of. Allegiances, for one," He looked at Sandor as he said this. "And priorities as well. I spoke with the dragon queen and your own excessively droll brother. Such a joykill, that one, pains me to say. But, I saw the dead creature, I know that we have a mutual enemy which supersedes all of our own internal squabbles." He stood up straighter and looked Sansa in the eyes. "I give you my word, my lady, I am here to help."

Sansa raised one brow, "The word of a Lannister is worth less than a horse's shit, as evidenced by the very reason you state for being here. You had better be prepared to give me something else."

Jaime laughed and turned a surprised face to the Hound, "Oh ho, she has changed! Grown quite the tongue, Lady Stark! It _is_ far more fetching than the timid face you used to wear, no I like this version much better. And she asks me to give her something! Well I've lost my hand, but I still have all of my other parts. Name your price, my lady."

"Ser Jaime!" Brienne was red and furious. The Hound had taken a step towards the mouthy captive with fists clenched and a murderous glare.

Jaime laughed again, "Gods, you're such a serious lot, I jest! Northerners, through and through." He turned his head and looked about him, "Now where have you put Bronn, he'll vouch for me."

Sansa was unamused by Jaime's bantering. "If you mean the same Bronn of the Blackwater who was my former husband's man, his word is worth as little as yours. He is a _Lannister_ man. I don't know what would possess you to believe I would be fool enough to accept the word of your own man as proof of your good intentions. Lord Tyrion may have been the smallest sibling, but he certainly possessed the lion's share of Lannister intelligence." She rolled her eyes in exasperation.

Brienne stepped forward before the affront on Jaime's face could become a retort.

"My lady, I can vouch for Ser Jaime's honor. He is unable to control his tongue as it seems," a glare at him, "but I have served with him before and he would not lie to me. I would stake my life on it."

A curious look crossed Ser Jaime's face as he looked at Brienne, but he clamped his mouth shut and was silent for once. Sansa narrowed her eyes at her shield, looking from her, to Jaime, and back again.

"Very well, I will speak with him. Clegane, we will make camp here. Brienne, he is to be shackled and guarded by no less than five men, and the same for Bronn. I will see them both in my tent when all has been prepared. You are in charge of their custody, Brienne. I am not my brother, nor my mother. I will not have any Kingslayer escapes within my camp." Sansa's tone and expression clearly communicated her gravity and with a whirl of her skirts she turned abruptly and headed back to the caravan, Sandor at her heels.

* * *

Sansa had already taken her supper, and by the time the captives were brought to her it was well into the evening. She was seated behind a modest table in the front section of her tent which was lit by several lanterns. A simple rug of animal hide covered the frozen earth beneath her feet, and the rear portion, sectioned off by curtains, was her sleeping chambers.

The Hound, who had been stationed just outside the tentflap, was the first to enter, followed by Brienne and both knights in chains. The ten men-at-arms which Sansa had assigned as guards were crowding behind.

"Thank you, Brienne. Keep two of your men, the rest can wait just outside. My meeting room is not as large as I would prefer." She gestured sarcastically around the simple tent as Sandor took up his position just behind and to the right of where she was seated.

"Your chambers look very inviting to me, my lady, and _you're_ much more inviting yourself now that time's been at ya." This time it was Bronn grinning stupidly at her, raising his eyebrows and nudging his fellow shackled companion.

Sansa did not react visibly, except to fold one hand over the other and take a deep breath.

"Lord Bronn. Ser Jaime. I will only say this one time. The next one to comment on my appearance in a lewd manner or draw insinuations about my sexuality _will_ be gelded. My former husband was eaten by his own dogs at my command, and the one prior to him was tried for murder while I escaped, despite being a prime suspect in the case. I will not flinch. Do not forget, I was married to the man who removed Theon Greyjoy's manhood. I have several of the Queen's Unsullied with me on this journey, they are quite expert at the art of removing man parts." She stood and pressed her fingers on the table as she leaned across it, tilting her head slightly. "Have I made myself quiet clear, my lords, or shall I send for the eunuchs?"

Both men raised brows at one another before nodding slowly, and Ser Jaime made an immediate attempt at remediation.

"My lady, I beg your forgiveness. You are a great leader from a noble house and deserve to be treated as such. My apologies for how I greeted you earlier, it was terribly thoughtless of me."

Sansa blinked at him and pursed her lips impatiently. "Are you done?"

He cleared his throat and glanced uncertainly in Brienne's direction. "Er, yes, my lady."

"Perfect." Sansa's false smile effectively communicated her impatience with their behavior and both men fell silent as she returned to her seat.

"Now, Ser Jaime. Why are you here?"

A rather subdued Jaime Lannister went into a simple, yet thorough explanation of his dealings with Cersei after Jon and Daenerys had made agreements with her at the parley. He detailed Cersei's betrayal and how he'd wanted nothing to do with it. He left the city after failing to change his sister's mind, and was followed shortly after by Bronn who knew he would not last long in King's Landing with Cersei ruling and without the man who owed him a castle, among other things. The two men had been heading for Winterfell when they were taken by Sansa's caravan.

When Jaime concluded his explanation, Sansa addressed him again, rising as she did so and walking around the table.

"Ser Jaime, if I understand you correctly, you're telling me that Cersei has no intentions of keeping her arrangement with Daenerys?"

Jaime nodded, "Unfortunately not. Euron Greyjoy's dramatic desertion at the parley was nothing more than an act. He's sailing now to Essos to hire the Golden Company for her. I swear it on my life."

Sansa stood before Jaime and surveyed him with an air of distrust.

"And why would you come to our side with this information?"

Jaime glanced at Brienne for a moment before responding. "Because it's the right thing to do. We gave our word at the parley and I was not in agreement with Cersei's deception. Call me what you will, but I keep my word. Brienne can attest to that."

Sansa looked to Brienne who nodded slowly.

"Very well." Sansa raised her chin. "Give me your word that you will never take up arms against my kin again."

"I already made that same oath to your mother," Jaime grinned. "And I am proud to say that I have kept it."

Sansa raised a brow, "And yet you held my grandfather's castle under siege."

Jaime bristled, but drew up straighter as he responded. "I was ordered to by the king, my lady. However I was very careful to end that siege _without_ taking up arms against your kin. Your own uncle Edmure ordered his men to surrender."

Brienne stepped forward, "It's true, my lady. I was there, as you remember, to speak with your great-uncle, the Blackfish. I reminded Jaime of his oath and I was pleased to learn that he had not forgotten it."

Sansa considered for a moment, penetrating Ser Jaime with a dubious glare. After several long moments during which the entire company fell silent, she finally turned to Brienne and nodded.

"Remove their shackles. They will remain in my camp until I have decided what shall be done with them. They must be guarded at all times, and I want their weapons confiscated."

The two men looked relieved as Brienne began removing their chains.

"See that their sleeping quarters are arranged, and have Maester Fennec sent to me at once," Sansa ordered as she returned to her seat.

"Of course, my lady."

"And Ser Jaime," Sansa added.

The blonde knight paused at the entrance of Sansa's tent, his one good hand already holding the flap aside as he turned back to face her.

"Yes, lady Stark?" All of his quips and smooth speech had melted away, subdued by good sense. Jaime's golden hand was a lifelong reminder of the lesson he'd learned the hard way—never push your captors too far.

"This does not mean that your crimes against my family have been forgiven, it only means you will be set to trial. And I am not the one who will judge you."

Jaime sighed deeply, "And who do you mean to 'judge me,' my lady?"

Sansa lifted her chin and gave him a small, knowing smile. "Surely _you_ of all people would remember him. He's younger than myself, looks rather like my father. And by the gods how he used to love climbing!" She raised her eyebrows, waiting for comprehension to settle upon him.

Jaime paled, "You can't be speaking of your crippled brother? Brandon Stark is dead, last I heard."

"He is not dead. Neither is he Brandon Stark anymore. He undoubtedly already knows you're here and knows of your purpose. Nevertheless, I will send a message to Winterfell immediately. You'll face the judgement of the Three-Eyed-Raven, Ser Jaime, and he will uncover the truth." Sansa folded her hands in her lap, "You may go."

Brienne ushered both men out, looking rather like a frightened doe herself as she cast a nervous glance at Ser Jaime. Sansa knew they'd spent some time together and suspected some favoritism on the part of her sworn shield. Still, Jaime Lannister had been the cause of her brother's fall, Robb and Mother's death, and her father's maiming. He must face justice and there was no one better suited to judge men fairly than Bran.

Once they were alone, Sandor moved out from behind Sansa and turned to her. "The Kingslayer is telling the truth," he rasped nonchalantly, as if it mattered little to him ultimately whether he was or wasn't.

Sansa wrinkled her brow at his confidence in making such a definitive statement.

"Is he? And how do you know?"

The Hound shrugged and tapped the hilt of his sword distractedly. "Known him since I was twelve years old. He knows how to lie, and he's good at it. But he's not lying." He approached the table and leaned against it, looking down at Sansa. "That man doesn't leave his sister unless he's forced to do so. His father's dead, the king is dead and there's no one left to force him, yet here he is." Sandor shook his head, "I saw it in his eyes when he spoke of her. He's lost the woman he loved and it's written all over him."

Sansa frowned and studied Sandor with a new interest.

"That's very...perceptive of you. And you have the look pinned down well enough to speak on it with certainty, it seems." She spoke sarcastically, but truthfully was rather intrigued at receiving such an unusual assessment from a well-known killer.

He studied her for a moment without speaking, an expression on his scarred face which she could not place, until Sansa nearly broke her gaze under his intense perusal.

"Aye, Sansa, I can speak on it with certainty," he rasped quietly.

A long silence followed and Sansa felt as if there was something about the moment that she was not quite grasping. Becoming flustered, she furrowed her brows and looked down at her hands, suddenly wishing he wasn't so near to her.

As if he'd heard her thoughts, Sandor pulled away from the table. "I'll take watch outside."

The flap fell into place behind him and she was alone once more.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note:**

 **Hi readers and welcome back after the longest update I've ever had between chapters: 2 months! I have never been so stuck with writer's block like I was this summer. I probably thought about this story every day, but couldn't bring myself to go anywhere with it. I think what really helped me to break past the barrier was going back and reading reviews from my old stories and also the stories themselves. The reviews were so encouraging, and I realized that my writing wasn't quite as bad as I'd remembered. So all that to say, your reviews make a HUGE difference in my inspiration level and self-confidence in my writing. Even just a one liner saying you liked it, but if you have time, longer reviews are like an IV line to a writer, lol. Anyway, even if you aren't logged in, it doesn't matter, any comment makes my day. And if you love it, favorite it! That gets me more readers and hopefully more interest which boosts my writing juices :D You guys are the best!**

 **And on a final, more technical note, in this chapter I have invented the names for the Wolfsriver and the Whiteroad, as I have not seen any road on the maps of Westeros which would directly lead to White Harbor, and I have not seen the name for the Western tributary of the White Knife. I assumed that the most logical place for the road would be on the southern side of what I've called the Wolfsriver, because the Kingsroad would likely have a well-maintained bridge there or some other easy crossing. This way they would not need to cross a river again until reaching the harbor, but they'd have access to fresh water throughout their journey by following the rivers. If any of you know information that I was unable to find on these geographical locations, feel free to correct me and I'll edit it ;)**

* * *

Chapter 7

 ** _Vulnerability_**

-Sansa-

"He's lost the woman he loved," the Hound turned slowly aside from the window to face her, the fierce intensity of his gray eyes penetrating to her core, "I did too, once." His voice was deep and raw as he moved ominously closer to her, his large hands balling into fists.

Sansa's insides coiled with fear as she stumbled backwards, struggling to keep her distance from the man who advanced steadily toward her. She shook her head and choked out a reply.

"I—I didn't know. I'm sorry."

He snatched her wrist without warning, eliciting a yelp of terror from his captive as he jerked her toward him with an iron grip.

"I think you did know," he growled, low and menacing in her ear as his cruel hands crushed her against his armored body, the scent of blood and vomit filling her nostrils. His eyes flashed green and black in the surreal light of the wildfire that raged just outside her window, a violent scene punctuated by the screams of dying men and the crashing of distant trebuchets. Sansa felt as if she had entered the seventh hell.

"No, please, Ser!" Sansa panicked, her nails scraping against the steel of his breastplate as she fought to free herself from his hold, clawing so violently that her fingertips began to bleed. She gaped in horror as thick, red rivulets streamed down the tarnished metal, marring the version of herself which was reflected back at her into an unrecognizable image of gore.

"Ser? Foolish girl, I'm no ser!" His voice had changed, morphing from the deep, rasping growl of the Hound to the maniacal sneer that made her blood run cold in her veins. "I am your lord husband!"

Sansa jerked her head up in horror, her whole body shaking as she beheld the face of the man she thought she'd never see again.

 _Ramsay._

Where the scars of the Hound had been only moments ago, there was nothing but wasted and worried flesh from where his dogs had ripped into him. The wounds were dripping blood with strips of flesh hanging loosely off of them, but the worst were his eyes; piercing, evil, and so blue they were nearly white.

Sansa tried to scream, but his hand clamped over her mouth, slickened and black with coagulated blood. She gagged as the sickening, metallic taste found its way to her tongue, tearing at the hand with every ounce of her strength. Unfazed by her struggles, Ramsay flipped her around and shoved her face into the bed, laughing as he procured a knife and held it against her throat. Only Sansa knew, inexplicably, that the knife was not a knife, but the severed member of Theon Greyjoy, pressing cold and hard against her trembling flesh.

Thrashing and screaming, Sansa struggled to put distance between herself and the vile object in her oppressor's hands. Ramsay's sick laughter filled her ears, as the room around her slowly lost its emerald glow, replaced with an oppressive darkness. It edged in from all sides until she could see nothing and feel nothing but the weight of him pinning her, immovable, to the bed. All that was left in her senses was the endless cold, cruel laughter smothering her, snuffing out her life as easily as one might blow the flickering flame of a candle into nonexistence.

Sansa jerked her face away from the pillow, her long braid falling over one shoulder from the sudden movement. Her heart was pounding in her chest and her breath was coming in fast, ragged draughts accompanied by little panicked sounds that might have been sobs. The darkness was all around her, but Ramsay was gone. It took only a moment for her mind to adjust to her surroundings and accept that this world was the true one, and not the hell from which she'd just emerged.

It was just another night terror, not unlike the many others she'd experienced since escaping from Ramsay's custody. Only this time it had also featured the Hound. She had not dreamt of _him_ for years.

Shuddering, Sansa pushed herself upright on her cot, wincing immediately as she realized that her left hand must have fallen asleep. The pins and needles sensation of blood returning to it, while not quite painful, was always uncomfortable, so she gritted her teeth until it passed. She'd been lying on it, she realized, had somehow wedged it awkwardly under her neck in her sleep. It felt cold and clammy and Sansa became aware that it had been her own hand which had spurred her subconscious mind into torturing her, as she'd believed it to be a piece of severed flesh wielded by Ramsay.

Blinking away the sleep from her eyes, Sansa squinted through the darkness of her tent and was only just able to make out the brazier in the corner; the coals had all but died out. It must be quite near dawn, though the world was still shrouded in darkness.

She found that she had no desire to try and sleep any longer, telling herself that she felt fully rested, while avoiding the obvious truth that it was fear of being subjected to another dream which actually drove her to arise and dress herself.

She needed to walk, to be alone with her thoughts in a place that made her feel closer to those who'd once protected her. In Winterfell, that place had always been the godswood.

 _How I wish there was one here,_ she mused as she pulled on her boots clumsily in the darkness, relying only on the faint glow that the dying embers cast across her sleeping chambers. Even without a godswood, she could walk away into the forest for just a few minutes, enough to put a little distance between herself and the rest of the camp to clear her thoughts and settle her nerves.

Feeling blindly for the cloak which she'd hung over the back of her chair the night before, Sansa's fingers finally settled on the heavy wool garment. She pulled it securely over her shoulders before shuffling toward the opening of her tent, moving slowly lest she stumble over something in the darkness.

It wasn't until she'd already lifted the fabric aside and ducked to move through it that she remembered her night guard. In Winterfell, Sansa had hardly noticed the guards stationed around the castle when she'd traveled its corridors in the night, heading for the godswood after a particularly bad night terror had awakened her. And they'd hardly noticed her; a lady of a castle was free to move about it whenever she pleased and she was safe within its walls.

Out here on her journey, however, she'd been guarded night and day by her two shields, and occasionally, a trusted stand-in. She felt that she could possibly persuade a regular guard (they were usually Unsullied) to allow her to walk alone, with assurances that she would not go far, and thus she found herself hoping that she would not find Brienne at the post, or worse…

"The lady is up early this morning."

He spoke softly yet his voice, deep and gravelly, caused a familiar thrill to travel down Sansa's spine leaving her flesh raised all over in little bumps. She had felt the same reaction from his voice on other occasions, and despite the rather pleasant sensation it caused every time, she always felt deeply discomfited by the experience, given the inducement.

Sansa closed her eyes and sighed at her ill-luck.

"Clegane. I just—need to walk for a bit," she replied in hushed tones, noticing with some irritation that he did not cease whatever he was doing while she spoke to him. "I will not go far and will return presently."

The distinct sound of a knife scraping repeatedly against wood continued piercing the silence of the early morning and Sansa frowned in annoyance. "What are you doing?"

"Whittling," he grunted matter-of-factly from where he was seated somewhere to her right, and by the sound of his voice, he was apparently not even looking in her direction.

Sansa huffed, "How can you carve wood in the dark?" She couldn't say why she was curious, or even why she was hesitating to set out on her walk to talk to him, but his disinterested demeanor was irksome.

He let out a small chuckle through his nose, the rhythmic sounds generated by his activity never ceasing.

 _whick, whick, whick_

"It's not dark. Not to me. There's a moon and I've been out here long enough for my eyes to adjust. But you," the whittling stopped for a moment, and she heard, rather than saw his face turn toward her. "You've been dreaming."

Sansa was so struck by the sudden and unexpected insight into her private experiences that she hesitated in her response just long enough to give him the confirmation that he probably didn't need. He started up again.

 _Whick, whick, whick._

"Don't bother denying it, Sansa. I know what a night terror sounds like." With a final stroke, she heard the sound of his knife being sheathed and he stood, mail and leather chinking and creaking as he took a step closer to her.

Sansa instinctively drew back to maintain the distance between them, opening her mouth for a retort only to close it in the next instant. To her great frustration, she found that she could not formulate a reply, neither simple, nor witty, nor anything at all. She just stood in place, feeling as if her privacy had been invaded. Even her moments of weakness and fear were not hidden from him, this man who always seemed to have the ability to see straight through her; as a girl, as a woman, as his superior, it made no matter. He always knew everything that she was about. He made her feel completely vulnerable, and this frightened her nearly as much as her dream had. In a desperate attempt to steer the conversation, and gain control, she turned upon him.

"That doesn't surprise me in the least, I'm sure you've had plenty of them yourself," she responded coldly, tucking her arms beneath each other as she withdrew further from him. "With a brother like yours."

He snorted and moved still closer to her. "You're deflecting."

Sansa gasped at his directness, still at a loss for how to defend herself against his intrusions. He stretched out his hand. "Well, you wanted to walk. Walk."

She glared at him, just barely able to make out his features, yet unable to properly read his expression in the light of the half-moon which was already low on the horizon in preparation for the dawn. Snatching up her skirts, Sansa stalked away in the direction of the forest, ready to be left alone.

After only four or five paces, she heard him moving behind her and Sansa whirled around furiously.

"What are you doing? Don't follow me!" She hissed, in a failed attempt to speak softly.

The Hound chuckled again as he reached Sansa and regarded her with some amusement. "Woman, do you really think I would allow you to walk alone in the forest in the darkness? I'm your bloody shield, what do you take me for?" He grinned, an expression that was impossible to miss in any light, and extended his hand again toward the treeline.

Sansa made a sound of exasperation and gave up, quickening her pace to at least put distance between them. If he wanted to follow her, then she would give him a pursuit that would hopefully remove any trace of humor he currently felt at her expense.

They trekked into the woods for a minute or two in silence, Sansa half-jogging and Sandor easily keeping pace with her. She carelessly plowed through drifts of snow that nearly went over the tops of her calf-height boots and ducked beneath outstretched branches. Finally, the Hound broke their silence, startling Sansa with how closely he'd kept up with her.

"Does trampling through snow in the dark on this piss-cold morning make you feel better, Lady Stark?" Sansa heard a branch crack behind her as he followed her into a small clearing where a patch of moonlight filtered through the tops of the trees and reflected off of the smooth, unbroken snow.

"I told you not to follow me," she snapped, not turning around to face him and instead proceeding stubbornly toward a fallen tree of which the trunk would provide a place for her to sit and sulk.

"Following you is my job, but that doesn't answer the question."

Sansa reached the tree and all but slapped it clean of the accumulated snow before seating herself firmly. She glared into the forest ahead of her, hugging herself tightly and doing her best to ignore the Hound.

There were few woodland sounds at this hour and Sansa thought that the world felt eerily silent. Her original plan to be alone with the forest, to feel close to the old gods and the family that she'd lost was dashed to pieces by her stubborn companion. She clenched her jaw and rued the day he'd been named her shield.

Long moments passed until Sansa couldn't tell where the Hound was anymore. The fresh snow had muffled the few movements she'd heard behind her, but she refused to turn around to see if he'd left her alone. She observed passively that the world around her had grown slightly less dark; the dawn was inching nearer.

"You can't run from what's in your head," he said finally, from just a few feet beyond her right shoulder.

"I'm not running from anything," Sansa responded irritably, turning her face away from the direction of his voice. Why had she thought that he might have left? The man would never do anything that might give her pleasure, choosing rather to follow whatever route was sure to irk her the most.

He snorted derisively, "Clearly not. I guess this was just a peaceful stroll through the woods." Sansa felt the trunk move beneath her as he apparently leaned against it.

When no answer came from her, the Hound scoffed. "Guess you have to be drunk to speak to me," he muttered. "Pity I didn't bring a wineskin out here."

Sansa unfolded her hands in a sudden movement and planted them beside her, stiffening her shoulders.

" _Why_ do you insist on aggravating me, Sandor Clegane?" She jerked her head sideways to glare at him, "Ever since the first time you spoke to me on the Kingsroad years ago, you've found joy in taunting me. What _ever_ have I done to provoke you so?"

There was silence for a moment as he processed her outburst, his brows knitted in contemplation while he studied her face.

"I found no joy in taunting you…" he finally responded, without conviction.

Another pause.

"You were just easy to provoke," he rasped with a noncommittal shrug. "You with your fancies and maiden's dreams and 'if you please's.' Needed a reminder of what the world was really like."

Sansa swung her legs over the trunk and jumped to her feet with indignation, swiftly closing the gap between them until her face was mere inches from his own.

"And have I not had that reminder, Sandor?" she spat angrily at him "Shall I thank you for pointing out to me early on that it was less likely I should ever live my 'maiden's dreams' and more likely that I'd end up beaten and tortured? Does it please you that I was taught that lesson by a cruel husband, raped and flayed according to his daily moods?" Her voice broke, but she continued breathlessly, "Are you happy, or do I need yet more lessons? I lost my parents, I lost my brothers. I lost my _trust_ in _everyone!_ Are my constant night terrors not enough? Tell me, Sandor Clegane, _what_ more have I yet to learn of 'what the world is really like?'"

Her chest heaving, Sansa gulped down a sob and covered her mouth with a trembling hand before turning her back to him quickly. She could show him her anger, but she would not show him her tears.

Sansa stared ahead through the vast forest in front of her, her whole body shaking with emotion. The same image of tree and branch and white, white snow continued as far as she could see, until they all began to merge into one as her vision blurred. She fought against the emotion which tore at her insides; the anger, but more poignant, the sorrow which only ever came through in deep, dark moments when she was at her most vulnerable. It was an overwhelming feeling of despair which cloaked her until she felt that she would be smothered by it.

She finally heard movement behind her, and before she could register surprise at the gesture, a large hand gripped her shoulder and turned her around to face him. She gasped softly as the Hound took both her shoulders firmly in his grasp and gazed down at her with unrepressed feeling in the depths of his gray eyes.

"Sansa," he rasped softly, "my biggest regret is not having taken you with me when I left that hellhole—not having done more to spare you from Joffrey's rages." She gaped at him, eyes wide as he placed a large calloused finger beneath her chin and raised her face up to look directly into his eyes. "If I could do it over again I would have taken you with me that night, taken you back to your family. Against your will if I had to. You didn't deserve the hand that life dealt you."

Sansa struggled to recover her composure. Her palms were sweating and her pulse was racing wildly. She swallowed nervously, and responded in little more than a whisper. "And why should you care what happened to me?"

His thumb stroked her jawline for a brief instant while he studied her face before reluctantly allowing his hand to drop. He cleared his throat and moved a little away from her.

"I'm your shield, ain't I? It's my job to protect you," he grinned, and their moment of intimacy was over, but not before Sansa had glimpsed, for the first time, a truth that had been staring her in the face all along.

It was as if a light had been illuminated inside of her as the Hound stepped aside to allow her to retrace their steps back to the camp. She hardly noticed anything on the walk back; not the pink hue of the sky, nor the snow glittering like millions of diamonds beneath her feet. Sansa moved as if in a trance, her mind racing, her hands trembling, and each breath coming out in a shudder. Something had become as clear to her as the day which was spreading rapidly over the snow-white world before her eyes.

Sandor Clegane was in love with her.

* * *

-Sandor-

With the dawn came the rising of the entire camp and the onset of acute feelings of regret for Sandor regarding his moment of transparency with Sansa during the early hours of that morning. He was both thrilled and agitated by the intimate encounter, but there was no denying that he was beginning to lose his restraint around the woman. It was not so much his physical restraint, although there was that as well as he'd touched her in ways he probably shouldn't have, but evidenced by all recent interactions with her, he was apparently losing all emotional restraint where she was concerned.

He hadn't intended to provoke her, and he kicked himself for the callousness he'd shown her when faced with his lady's obvious distress. To hear her speak so brokenly and violently about the atrocities that had been done to her had shocked him into unwittingly revealing far too much of his feelings to her.

But Sansa's very nature and person _provoked_ feelings in him, feelings that he'd neither felt, nor dwelt upon for years. Sandor had survived a cruel and unjust life by thriving on a strict range of emotions which varied from hatred to rage, or else just indifference. It was only ever during the unguarded moments in which he traveled to the bottom of a wineskin that he remembered what it was like to feel other emotions; to feel loss and pain, to feel loneliness. And in his darkest, drunkest moments, to remember what it was like to love.

The grown man that was Sandor Clegane had not truly known love, and he'd begun to believe that it was an illusion, nothing more than a story that cunts told to their stupid, impressionable children to groom them for marriage. He'd been duped into infatuations as a young man, fooling himself into believing that women could see more than the scars on his face, but it hadn't taken long for him to learn what they were all about. A woman could only love a man who was either handsome or powerful, and while some were at times drawn to the power Sandor possessed physically, this only lasted as long as a tumble between the sheets before they were off again in search of the only kind of power which was truly bewitching to them: wealth, and with it, influence.

But the boy whom Sandor had once been _had_ known love, if only for a few short years. It hadn't been the fanciful, ridiculous love between knights and maidens, the love that was just a disguise for a man's lust. It was the pure and perfect love from a mother and sister, both of whom Sandor had adored with all his heart.

Lady Clegane had been the image of the Mother herself, with a disposition that was so kind and unassuming, that if Sandor had not known her himself, he would never have believed that such a woman had ever existed in the flesh. She'd left his world too soon, planting a final kiss on his tousled head one cold, wet day in late autumn, her frail hands gripping his chubby ones as tightly as her strength could manage, refusing even to the last to let him go. He'd been all of five years old when she'd reluctantly took up the Stranger's hands in place of his own, following Death into the seven heavens, where young Sandor always knew she would have gone. And when he'd wept for his mother, much to the disgust of his elder brother, he'd been gathered up gently into loving arms and consoled by Elynor.

After his dear mother, there was no one else in the world whom Sandor had loved more than his sister, Elynor. She was four years his elder, but had so cheerfully taken up the role of mothering him ever since Lady Clegane had lost her strength, that his father oft said that she was old beyond her years. Elynor became Sandor's whole world. She'd care for him, play with him when he was wont for a playmate, and when night fell, she would lie in his bed and sing to him the song by which his mother had lulled him to sleep as a babe. And after he had been so terribly burned by the cruel brother they shared, she'd wept bitterly for him, tending both to the wounds on his face and the wounds in his heart.

Elynor had been the only reason he'd fought to stay alive, the only person in the entire world whom he cared for after losing his mother. Until the day that he lost her, too.

Sandor shook his head to clear it of the painful memories as he took up his mounted position behind lady Sansa. He rarely allowed his mind to travel back to those distant reveries which were both sacred and poignant; though so many years had passed, the wounds still felt as raw as the days that he'd watched them both die.

* * *

Despite the somewhat unwelcome addition to their party from the night before, Sansa had felt that they could not delay their movements south, but neither could she release the two men without first consulting with those in command at Winterfell. Therefore, she had decided that their prisoners would march south with the caravan, back the way they had come, until a raven returned from Winterfell detailing what action should be taken regarding them.

So the journey continued toward White Harbor with two mouthy knights added to their numbers. Brienne had been instructed to continue to oversee their captivity which left Sandor directly responsible for the charge of Lady Sansa, and thus had him by her side all day. He was uncertain why Sansa had not decided on the reverse, especially when she seemed to loathe his company so thoroughly, but he was not about to voice any complaint either. He was far more in favor of the current arrangement.

The travelers expected to see the fork where the Wolfsriver joined with the White Knife later that same day. After crossing the smaller, western tributary shortly after departing Castle Cerwyn, the caravan had left the Kingsroad to follow the Whiteroad which ran south and east alongside the Wolfsriver and, later, the White Knife, until both road and river would end at White Harbor.

Journeying along the river made for pleasant scenery, and it was easy to pass the time taking in the splendor of the vast Northern landscape. It became almost a game for Sandor to recall certain hills or specific bends in the river from his recent travels in which he'd been riding in the opposite direction along the very same road, heading for Winterfell. Heading for Sansa.

At regular intervals, his thoughts always came back around to her. She had been behaving unusually to him all day, speaking very little to him, and yet he'd caught her eyeing him on more than one occasion with something of a question in her piercing, Tully eyes. He knew, undoubtedly, that it was related to their interaction that morning, but could not determine what she meant by it.

He was passingly annoyed at himself for becoming so transparent with her, even going so far as to stroke her face while he shared his regrets with her. But a very small, often ignored part of his conscious craved release for the secret, formless feelings which he possessed for Sansa. He never fully articulated what those feelings meant, even in his own thoughts, but they were consuming in their intensity as much as they remained as yet undefined. Every time he was alone with her, they seemed to come closer to the surface, almost begging to be recognized and given the validation of being consciously felt and experienced by him, but true to his surly nature, he actively rejected them.

To give validation to whatever _feelings_ he had for Sansa would create a vulnerability in him, an opening for the inevitable loss which always came on the heels of emotions like love or a sense of belonging.

Besides, the last time he had tentatively allowed himself to feel something for the sweet, timid, lady Sansa, she'd rejected him when he'd been most vulnerable, and that rejection had ultimately been the reason he'd wandered through the Riverlands like a drunken fool, coming face to face with death after hearing the news that she'd been wed to the Imp. Ever since he'd regained consciousness after days of fever, nursed back to health by Septon Ray, he'd cursed his infatuation with her and had actively suppressed all further thoughts or feelings pertaining to Sansa Stark.

Of course, all of that was _before_ he'd learned that his path would cross hers again; before he'd laid eyes on her once more in Winterfell's courtyard, so very like that first time he'd ever seen her, and yet so _un_ like it. For this time she had not been merely a lovely girl toeing the line of womanhood, she'd been a veritable goddess. Her matured beauty had almost struck him dumb, and her sharp tongue had finished the job, rendering him as useless and stupid as a squire on his first day of service.

While there were similarities to his obsession with her years ago in King's Landing, the feelings he had now were also very different. She'd been young then, too young, and so he'd drowned his unwelcome desires in strongwine, determined to forget her, yet failing time and again. Once she'd flowered, he'd convinced himself that she was now a woman grown, and had stopped torturing himself for his interest in her. Yet when the time came, she'd rejected him all the same. He had only offered her protection and a way home, had not even hinted at his true reasons for wanting her to join him, but it made no matter. Sansa had still rejected him.

But now his interactions with Sansa were very different. She was no longer timid, and there was no question anymore of her womanhood; shadowing her day and night was a constant visual reminder of that. Sandor had spent many years in the service of Cersei, one of the most beautiful women in the seven kingdoms, but the passing physical appreciation he'd had for the queen's beauty was absolutely nothing compared to the constant desire he now felt for Sansa. He was loathe to admit it openly to himself, but there was almost no point in denying the obvious. He wanted her.

And now, as he watched her thick, auburn braid swaying methodically across her back as they rode, he realized—with no small bit of humor at the perfectly literal illustration of a figurative truth—how completely hypnotized he'd become by this woman. She'd thoroughly consumed his thoughts and consciousness ever since he'd been reunited with her, had once more reduced him to a state of increased vulnerability and left him with a confusing tumult of mixed emotions.

Sansa was both beguiling and intriguing, both broken and strong. He craved her presence, and yet she consistently recoiled from him. He knew that it was not a reaction borne of fear as once it might have been, but what seemed to Sandor to be sheer stubbornness. She was drawn to him too for some unknown reason, he felt sure of it, but she continued to pull away at every turn, almost as if she was unwilling to be…

 _Vulnerable._

The realization struck him fully in that moment and he wondered why he'd not seen it before. Sansa, like himself, had been hurt terribly by those who should have loved her, and so she pushed away anyone who might put her into such a position of vulnerability again. They were far more alike than he'd ever realized before, even down to the scars they both wore, inside and out. And while he knew of at least one external scar marring Sansa's lovely skin, he found himself wondering how many more were beneath that gown? How many scars had Ramsay carved into her lovely flesh because of his sick obsession? _Flayed, she'd said. He flayed her._ The thought enraged him more than he could have thought possible, but for now he pushed it away, not wishing to distract himself from the direction his mind was going.

For now he was still trying to determine what to do about the predicament he was falling further and further into with each passing day. As he studied the perfect lines of her profile, he allowed the reality of his situation to settle fully upon him: he had bound himself in service to a woman who had fully bewitched him, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to control himself with her.

Sansa, seeming to feel his gaze upon her, turned to him suddenly; she'd caught him directly in his intense perusal of her. But instead of sticking her chin out and looking stubbornly in the other direction as she usually did when she caught him looking her way, Sansa's cheeks turned crimson. She chewed her lip as she sometimes did when she was nervous, and hastily tucked behind her ear a few wisps of hair which had escaped her braid.

It dawned on Sandor instantaneously when he had seen her behave that way before; he remembered mocking her for it. First on the Kingsroad, when she'd looked at the prince with stars in her eyes, and later during the tournament of the Hand when the Knight of Flowers rode out onto the lists. He stared at her incredulously as his mind began rapidly piecing together her behavior over the last few days, now seen from an entirely new perspective.

Sansa caught her breath, and in the next moment came back to her senses, forcing a look of indifference onto her countenance. She averted her gaze quickly, but not before Sandor had seen in her reaction all that he needed to know. The slightest breeze could have knocked him off of his mount in that moment.

Sansa Stark was attracted to him.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Hey y'all, I won't bore you with my usual excuses. I write when the muse comes and I'm a slave to her whims. I tried to get this one out before the weekend but, alas, work. At least it's a long one! Don't forget to let me know how you feel about it, you know the drill, reviews are food for a writer's soul, and when I'm in a dry spell, usually reading reviews is what gets me going again ;)**

* * *

Chapter 8

 ** _Intoxication_**

-Sansa-

Reading the small bit of worn parchment over for a third time did nothing to change its contents, yet Sansa did so anyway, certain that she must be missing something. How could _this_ be Winterfell's answer?

The raven from home had caught up with them that same evening, arriving just one day after she'd sent her own flying north with the news of their captives. Yet the answer which had returned now left Sansa both stunned and bewildered. It was as if Bran hadn't even acknowledged the political importance of the man whom she held in her camp, or if he did, that Jaime Lannister was of no more interest to those in command at Winterfell than any wandering knight might be.

The note itself contained very little information except to relay that Bran had already learned of Cersei's betrayal and that Lord Jaime need not remain a captive. As to what was to be done with the man, it seemed to be implied that he was to make the choice himself, whether to continue on with Sansa's caravan and aid in their cause, or to continue traveling north to join in the fight at Winterfell. In fact, by the style and conveyance of this note, Jaime Lannister might have settled himself comfortably back home at Casterly Rock at his earliest convenience and those in command at Winterfell might only have shrugged their shoulders.

The frown lines on Sansa's forehead deepened as she was forced to accept the contents of the note as the final decision on the matter, and she pressed her fingertips to a temple with a sigh. Everything was awry. With death marching on Winterfell, little things like the crimes of a great Westerosi man seemed to be irrelevant to those who were on the brink of a great battle. There was naught that Sansa could do then but to relay the news to Brienne and have the men released.

"Bad news from home, my lady?"

Maester Fennec's gentle query drew Sansa from her thoughts and she glanced up at him absently. He had delivered the message himself, standing patiently near the warm brazier in the corner of Sansa's tent as she'd pored over the answer from Winterfell.

"Oh, no Maester," Sansa pushed herself to her feet and stepped around the table toward the older man, "No, I'd just expected a different answer regarding our 'special guests.'" She forced a tired smile.

Maester Fennec had served the Dustins of Barrowton before being sent south with Sansa's caravan. He was a tall, well-built man with a head full of thick, black hair streaked through with gray and a lined face that showed how often he'd worn a smile upon it. He was not nearly as old as most of the maesters whom Sansa had known throughout her young life, and he might even be called handsome in some respects, though he was likely still well into his fifties. Unlike old Maester Edmynd who'd presumed that Sansa might have been pregnant during the ordeal at Castle Cerwyn, mortifying her sense of dignity and forever injuring him in her eyes, Fennec was soft-spoken and pleasant, attributes which had elevated him to the position of Sansa's preferred choice of maester for the remainder of their journey. Fennec had an air of a man who was very learned and wise, yet he often kept his opinions quietly waiting behind knowing eyes, preferring to be asked for his advice rather than offering it unsolicited as Maester Edmynd was wont to do. The heavy chain which marked his profession and was known to bend the backs of his fellows before their time seemed only to add an air of strength to Fennec's sturdy appearance as he bore its weight easily, his head always erect and his posture impeccable.

Now he looked down at Sansa as she neared him and returned the smile, "Our knights are not men of interest to the dragon queen? Or is it your brother who has dismissed them?"

Sansa was not affronted by these direct questions. She always maintained open communication with Fennec about strategy and plans, and had kept him informed of all of her decisions thus far, seeking his advice whenever appropriate.

She rolled her eyes, exhaling a sharp snort of derision. "Doesn't matter which, does it? Their answer is the same," Sansa responded dryly.

An apologetic smile wrinkled the older man's face, "They have matters of grave importance on their minds, my lady. The timing is poor."

Sighing again, Sansa nodded and began to fold the letter absently. "I know, Maester. Thank you for your counsel," she gestured with her hand toward the exit, "you may go and take your supper. It seems I must speak with Brienne."

Maester Fennec bowed himself out of the tent and after a brief examination of her feelings on the matter and the finality of the decision which had been made, Sansa followed suit.

She met her sworn shield standing in faithful watch at the entrance, looking every bit the warrior that she'd spent so much of her life training to be. The long, slanting rays from the setting sun were striking the tall woman's unkempt locks, illuminating each strand as brightly as if it were spun gold. It was a perfect winter's evening which had descended upon Sansa's camp, and yet its loveliness was in stark contrast with Brienne's masculine form, rigid and unflinching as if prepared to engage in battle at any moment with some unseen foe.

Nevertheless, Sansa smiled at the sight of her loyal shield, so tirelessly offering her protection without a thought to her own comfort. And Brienne _was_ loyal, even if she was sometimes rather peculiar.

"Brienne, as I have told you before, there is no need to remain standing the entire time you're on watch. There is a seat provided, why do you not rest yourself?"

Though she spoke to Brienne, Sansa's attention was compulsively drawn toward the serene prospect of the riverbank just beyond the rise on which her tent had been erected. The narrow ribbon of water which tumbled blithely between banks of ice long enshrouded by deep snow, had turned into molten gold in the sunset, reflecting all of the vibrant colors of the sky upon its rippling and changing surface.

For a moment Sansa lost herself in the wonder of it. She felt as if all of their troubles must be insignificant, all of their enemies and concerns irrelevant. How could such splendor remain unspoiled in the midst of a world which was drowning in conflict and terror? A gentle zephyr whispered through the loose strands of hair at her temples and Sansa closed her eyes, inhaling deeply of the cool air and reveling in the utter perfection of the moment, however briefly it might linger.

It was broken unsurprisingly by Brienne defending her choice of position.

"I much prefer to stand while on duty, Lady Sansa. I cannot be ready to defend my lady's honor at a moment's notice while seated."

Chuckling softly at the very predictable reply, Sansa gave a distracted shrug, turning her back on the lovely scene as she again faced the task at hand. "As you wish. Where are our captives, Brienne?"

It was only then that her sworn shield caught sight of the letter which was still clutched between her mistress' fingers, and it seemed to Sansa that Brienne struggled to maintain her composure and an expression of disinterest when her feelings on the matter must be anything but disinterested. The anxious tensing of her brow at the inquiry told Sansa of the fear which Brienne harbored in regard to Jaime Lannister's future.

Despite her obvious concern, Brienne responded with her usual solemnity, "I saw them climb down from the wagon which they were confined to, my lady, when we stopped to make camp. I watched for a moment and ensured that they were escorted to their tent with Black Fly, Yellow Beast, Herris, old Ser Jaxton, Brown—"

"Yes, I understand that you've made sure that our knights are well-protected Brienne, thank you," Sansa interrupted, impatient with Brienne's tiresome attention to detail. "Lead me to their tent, please. I must speak with them."

Dipping her head in nervous acquiescence, Brienne took the lead, making no attempt to question Sansa as she directed her lady back through the camp to deliver Winterfell's unwelcomed message of emancipation.

Sansa had occasionally wandered through the snaking mass of wayns and tents on other evenings during their journey, picking her way carefully around bedrolls and firepits as she saw to one errand or another, but generally she avoided the crowds, preferring to keep to her own tent and the solitude which she found there. A feeling of despair often accompanied these rare instances when she was face to face with her people and the task to which she'd been assigned, so Sansa avoided the inducement whenever possible. It was easier that way.

After several minutes of walking past hundreds of inquiring eyes and more cookfires than Sansa cared to count, the two women finally reached a small clearing where the tent which was to shelter the two knights as well as a handful of their guards was being erected. Ser Jaime crouched nearby, awkwardly breaking up kindling for their fire and Lord Bronn was clearing snow from a path that led into the woods, likely toward what would be the company's latrine for the night.

Both men paused in their tasks, rising to their feet at Sansa's approach and bowing their heads in her direction. Their subdued tongues and increased attitude of respect for her person since she'd scolded them the night before gave Sansa a brief sense of satisfaction at her small victory. Still, it paled in comparison to the agitation she now felt in relaying the news from Winterfell to these men, and she wasted no time in ridding herself of the unpleasant burden of duty.

"Ser Jaime. You and your companion are free to go. Seek my brother at Winterfell, or your own home at Casterly Rock, or a brothel if your inclination tends that way. It is of no concern to me. You are no longer under my charge." She turned in preparation to take her leave of them.

An audible gasp erupted from Brienne, and Jaime's eyebrows drew up in great surprise at the verdict. He extended his golden hand in Sansa's direction in an attempt to waylay her retreat.

"Free to go? Lady Stark, I had not expected…," he narrowed his eyes as if expecting some trick from her. "Was I not to be tried as you said before?"

Sansa summoned all of her patience as she inhaled a deep breath and responded to Jaime over one shoulder rather than turning about to face him. "It would seem that my lord brothers and her grace have else on their minds than your crimes, Ser Jaime. You will leave our camp at dawn. Excuse me."

Sansa left the two knights and their guards staring at one another in stunned silence as she began to retrace her steps back to her own tent, an astonished Brienne quickly at her heels.

"My—my lady. That's all? We're just letting them go?" she spluttered, having difficulty processing this sudden turn of events.

"Yes, Brienne. Here, you may read the letter if you like. I am done with it."

Sighing and massaging her neck with one hand in an attempt to relieve her tension, Sansa almost tossed the offending paper at Brienne. "I think I will bathe tonight," she said abruptly. "Have the tub brought to my tent and a hot bath ordered."

Brienne looked confused as she reached out to snatch up the letter before it could fall to the ground. "Of course, my lady. But—"

"Go on, Brienne, read the letter. Summon the bath. Say goodbye to Ser Jaime," a knowing look at her shield. "I am tired of all of it. Let me be, now. I know the way to my tent, and besides," Sansa's attention was fixed on a large campfire in the distance where a hulking shape sat well away from the flames, "I can see my other sworn shield is just there. I will be fine, he will take over your duties. Go."

But it was Sansa who went, stalking in the direction of the fire and leaving Brienne rooted to her spot, already poring over the contents of the letter. Sansa knew it was only a matter of time before the woman would return to her, begging that Ser Jaime be allowed to continue on in their caravan as the letter suggested.

She grimaced, wondering what Brienne saw to approve of in the man who was just another Lannister to her, and one who bore a striking resemblance to his son which only served to deepen Sansa's dislike for him. Brienne would return later with her plea, there was no doubt about it, but for now Sansa would no longer dwell on it. She set her thoughts instead in anticipation of the warm bath which was to greet her within the hour as she made her way toward Sandor Clegane.

The Hound was seated on a long wooden crate facing the fire and appeared to be taking his supper. Approaching from behind as she was meant that he would not see her until she'd reached him, and for that Sansa was grateful; she already felt her pulse quickening at she thought of being in his company again after the last several hours during which he'd been off duty. The greater part of that day had been spent in very close proximity with this man whom she was now convinced cared very deeply for her, and likely had for some time. Perhaps the most unsettling part of this newfound understanding was that Sansa was completely unsure how she felt about it.

Now as she drew nearer to the large gathering of weary travelers, wayns, and tents which encircled the campfire, Sansa noticed that Sandor was apparently not alone. The place beside him, which had previously been obscured from her line of sight by an outcropping of trees, was occupied by a woman. The sun had already disappeared below the horizon and in the scant light remaining of the dusk, Sansa had to squint to try to make out the woman's features. She was gesturing rather excessively, behaving with a familiarity toward Sandor that led Sansa to believe that there must be a prior acquaintance between them. Eventually one of these movements provided Sansa with the full profile visual that she needed to identify the woman. Clenching her jaw in disgust Sansa gripped the woolen fabric of her skirts more tightly.

His companion was a well-known whore from Wintertown who had only been sent south with the others because she'd very recently borne a child and was still nursing; her gigantic breasts, which appeared to be nearly falling out of her blouse at the moment, were a testament to that. And the way that she was now tittering and presenting herself so brazenly to the Hound made it apparent that she was not about to pass up any opportunity to continue to earn her living.

Sansa slowed her pace as she drew nearer the pair, ignoring the way her stomach had begun twisting unpleasantly ever since she'd realized that Sandor was accompanied by another. A morbid curiosity now rose in her breast to see how he would react to the advances of this whore. She had not forgotten her time in King's Landing and the knowledge she'd possessed even then that the Hound was known to frequent brothels. She doubted he'd changed much in that regard, and yet her newborn conviction from only that morning that Sandor Clegane cared for _her_ gave her pause. Surely he wasn't taking his pleasure from whores while harboring more tender feelings toward herself? The mere thought of such a possibility made Sansa ill.

The Hound now turned to face the other woman whose mouth had opened just enough to allow her tongue to travel across her lower lip suggestively. One hand had begun stroking his broad shoulder and the other hovered in anticipation just above his thigh.

Sansa felt her breath hitch in her throat and she stopped her approach altogether, frozen in place in an anxious moment of suspense as she awaited his reaction. She stood only a few paces from them, near enough to see everything quite clearly, although the fire behind them had silhouetted the features of both. Her hands were fisted so tightly in her skirts that she could feel her accelerated pulse throbbing in her fingertips.

The Hound growled a reply, low and menacing, only inches from the whore's face.

"I told you to fuck off. I'm not interested."

Sansa released the breath she'd been holding and bit her lower lip in an attempt to stave off the ridiculous feeling of triumph that rushed over her upon hearing his definitive rejection.

The whore's face fell in disappointment and she had begun to begrudgingly withdraw from her unwilling object when she caught sight of Sansa who had just resumed her approach. The startled woman squeaked in surprise, clambering to her feet suddenly and falling into a clumsy curtsy that was accompanied by a mind-numbing string of unintelligible flatteries and "milady's."

Sansa ignored her, looking only at the Hound who rose to his feet slowly, appraising her with a look of mild surprise.

"Why are you here alone?" he questioned, glancing behind her for Brienne and seeming displeased at finding no sign of a guard anywhere nearby. "Have I got to be by your side every minute of the day to make sure you're properly looked after? Not a damned one of these fuckers can do their job."

Sansa made a face of disapproval, "Don't fault Brienne, I only just excused her on an errand. I saw you from a distance." She flicked her gaze toward the whore who was slowly retreating from their presence, before looking back at the Hound and raising one eyebrow rather pointedly. "I hope I have not interrupted anything."

He seemed to understand the unspoken implication and the unburned corner of his mouth lifted slightly, "Aye, you have. Was busy telling that wench to fuck off."

Sansa's mouth twitched, but she ignored the comment, and he continued.

"Let me escort you back to your tent. I'll watch until Brienne returns."

Sansa glanced down at the plate of food he'd left only half-consumed on his seat. "But you have not finished your supper." She stepped slowly around the crate, seating herself delicately in the empty place which had so recently been vacated and looking up at him with a rare smile, "I'll wait for you."

A look of suspicion at Sansa's uncharacteristic friendliness settled on his countenance, but he did not object, taking up his plate again with a grunt and seating himself beside her.

As Sandor began shoveling food into his mouth with all the decorum of a half-starved waif, Sansa leaned back slightly on her hands and gazed into the large, open campfire in silent contemplation.

There was something about watching the flames dance and writhe that had always been a source of relaxation for Sansa. As a child she'd often taken up a comfortable position near the hearth simply to gaze at it, mesmerized by leaping flames and comforted by the cheerful crackling of logs and the warmth of glowing embers. Fire was always the same, a familiar comfort like the arms of an old friend; whether blazing in a great hearth in Winterfell or in a campfire by the White Knife in the cold, wild North, a good fire was always welcome.

With a discreet sidelong glance at the man beside her, Sansa wondered if her companion could have even remotely similar sentiments about fire. What filled her with peace and calmed her nerves after a long and trying day was the same element that had long ago left him in misery, the proof of its fury etched into his flesh as a lifelong reminder. The Hound's scarred side was exposed to her now and as the firelight both illuminated and shadowed each ridge and ripple in the ruined skin, Sansa shuddered to think of the accident, of the child he'd been, and the pain he'd suffered. Yes, the Hound would undoubtedly feel very differently than she about fire.

He felt Sansa's perusal and turned toward her, their gazes locking.

 _He's in love with you._

The unbidden thought startled Sansa and she gasped softly, allowing her gaze to drop to her lap as she sat up straighter and fidgeted. It was strange how the realization of his feelings for her seemed to give her a sense both of power and unease. On the one hand, to believe that she could invoke such tender emotions and gestures as he'd displayed to her that morning gave her a wild thrill, deep in the pit of her stomach. To possess this power to affect such an impressive and intimidating man was undoubtedly flattering—even intoxicating.

On the other hand, Sansa knew she must actively reject even the notion of a man like the Hound being connected to her in any way other than mistress and sworn shield. Just the mere thought of their relationship venturing any further than that was far too inappropriate. And besides, he was _the Hound_. Everyone knew him as a mean, bitter, and scarred man. An ex-Lannister man, too. She could never even consider...

He interrupted her serious musings.

"What were you looking at?"

Sansa straightened her shoulders and squinted into the darkness as she pretended to be very interested in the people seated just beyond Sandor. "Nothing."

"Hmph. You've been looking at 'nothing' more than usual today," he snorted at his own joke as he spoke through a mouthful of food.

Sansa frowned. "Have I?" she responded dryly. "Well, _if_ I have, how could you blame me? You behaved very strangely this morning."

Even as she said the words, she regretted venturing to the topic. To speak of that moment was to relive it. Her heart began to race as she could almost feel the pad of his thumb once more as it tenderly stroked the outline of her jaw, could almost see the raw emotion that had churned in the depths of his grey eyes in that moment as he'd spoken to her of his regrets. Sansa bit her lip.

Sandor looked surprised that she'd so boldly referenced their intimate conversation from that morning. After scraping the last bites of food into his mouth, he put his plate down, wiped his face with the back of his hand and regarded her in silence. Then leaning forward, he rested his forearms on his knees, staring ahead into the flames, and it seemed a very long moment before she heard his deep, rasping voice again.

"You started it. I was only doing my job. Had to follow you on your morning jaunt into the forest."

"But I just wanted to be alone. You made me angry."

"Aye, but you're always angry now, it seems."

Sansa scoffed and opened her mouth for a retort but found that she had none to give. He'd hit a nerve, speaking plainly on what Sansa had known to be true for some time and often felt guilty about. She _was_ always angry now, and she couldn't even say why. Or why it twisted like a knife in her heart that she was hearing it from _him_.

Noticing her lack of response, he turned his head and met her gaze steadily. "Not saying I blame you, Sansa."

This was an unexpected sentiment from him, showing not only an uncharacteristic bit of kindness, but also a measure of understanding for what she had been through in recent years to alter her demeanor so noticeably. She grew suddenly flustered and embarrassed. He was unraveling her again.

"It—It doesn't matter. We don't need to discuss it anymore. I—apologize for losing my temper with you."

He grinned at that, and Sansa noted how it softened his appearance. Or perhaps it was just the warm glow of the fire that had rendered his countenance in an almost pleasing light. Why was she thinking these things?

"And now you're waiting for an apology from me, is that it?" He snorted, "Just like a woman. Fine, I shouldn't have provoked you." Almost as an afterthought, he added softly, "Nor touched you like that."

Embarrassment flooded Sansa's face and she pulled at her braid anxiously, knowing how her cheeks must be burning. _Gods, how can he speak so openly about it?_ It had been such an intimate gesture, and one which should never have occurred between them. She was reminded suddenly of their kiss from so long ago, and felt as if her head was spinning. Ducking her face from him, she stammered a reply.

"That's not what I meant—I mean, you shouldn't have, but that's not—" Sansa's voice trailed off as she realized that the Hound was grinning at her in such a way that didn't make sense within the context of their conversation. He made a gesture with his eyes which indicated that she should turn around. Wrinkling her brow in confusion, she turned her head slowly in the direction that he implied.

Sansa started violently and almost fell backwards as she realized how closely a man was standing above her, holding a lyre in one hand and smiling from ear to ear.

"Gods!" she breathed, holding one hand over her heart as she tried to regain her composure. The man either hadn't noticed or hadn't cared how much he'd startled her, and remained in exactly the same position.

Er," Sansa cleared her throat, assessing the man with an air of confusion. He was looming over her in such close proximity that she actually had to lean backward to look at him, and she felt very uncomfortable at being surprised by a stranger in her current position, unable to stand to give a proper greeting.

"Apologies, my lord," here the Hound actually laughed aloud and Sansa frowned, yet continued addressing the man, craning her neck awkwardly so that she could look up at him. "What may I do for you?"

The man had shoulder length, tousled gray hair and looked at least old enough to be her grandfather, with a stench coming off of him that was difficult to ignore. He seemed to be one of the unusual sort of persons who wasn't quite of the same understanding as most about maintaining personal space or behaving in a conventional manner. Sansa wanted to further distance herself from him, but the only direction she could go would bring her closer to the Hound and she was already as close to him as she felt was proper.

"I am no Lord, milady Stark," the man began, with a tone of voice which was surprisingly soothing and seemed as if it wouldn't have belonged to a man with his appearance or demeanor. He bent his back into a clumsy bow, which brought his face even more within Sansa's personal space and she was forced to lean backward as far as she dared to avoid contact.

"Me name's Jem, but most people 'round here call me Four Fingers on account o' I only got four fingers on me left hand." He held up the offending extremity unnecessarily close to Sansa's face so that she might verify the truth of it. He was undoubtedly simple-minded, and Sansa was beginning to feel embarrassed for him and his loud and unusual behavior. "I seen you join our campfire, milady, and thought to meself it would be an honor to play a tune for yeh."

Jem extended both hands to his sides and looked round about him for the approval of his fellow campfire companions, most of whom began to hoot and shout their agreement of the suggestion.

Sansa had long been used to receiving attention from the commonfolk as her station demanded; it had been a part of her life for as long as she could remember. Yet now she found herself blushing inexplicably as the Hound chuckled beside her and this strange man waited dramatically for her reply as if he were an actor in a play who was anxiously anticipating her next line.

"Of course—er—Jem. You may play your instrument whenever you like." Sansa forced a courteous smile and prayed that he would take a step or two backwards. She glanced at the Hound, hoping he would see her discomfort and insist the man give her some space, but he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself.

"No, no!" Jem replied excitedly. "I do play whenever I like, but _this_ performance will be _specifically_ for you, milady."

Sansa was blushing madly now, trying to avoid eye contact with the Hound and wishing she had just returned to her tent.

"Er—as you wish," she stammered lamely, ready to say anything that might induce the man to back away.

"But, I must have a song! What would the lady most wish to hear?"

Sansa almost rolled her eyes in utter exasperation, but caught herself before she could be rude. Some of her people called out requests, but it was the booming voice beside her that decided on the ode to Sansa.

"She likes Florian and Jonquil. Play her a song about them."

Sansa glared at the Hound who laughed again and winked discreetly in her direction.

"Florian and Jonquil!" the musician ejaculated. "Yes, of course!"

The man called Jem finally began moving away, to Sansa's palpable relief, and settled back into his seat near the fire. The opening notes of the song which the Hound had requested began emanating from the instrument and in a few moments, the eccentric Jem was completely lost to the world in his music.

"I do _not_ like Florian and Jonquil!" Sansa tossed her long braid over one shoulder, glaring her disapproval at her aggravating companion who had always teased Sansa about her taste in music and apparently wasn't about to change his habits where that was concerned.

Sandor chuckled, shrugging his large shoulders carelessly, "I thought you wanted him to move. I was just helping you out."

"Oh." Sansa deflated a little. "Well, I did." She glanced in the direction of the musician with wrinkled brows and reflected in a lowered voice, "What a strange man."

More laughter rumbled up from the Hound's chest and Sansa jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow.

"Will you stop? He'll hear you," she whispered, pretending to be listening to the music with pleasure as Jem glanced their way. She was desperately trying to contain her own amusement, attempting a very stern glare at her shield after the musician's gaze had moved on. "You're so rude, Sandor."

"I'm rude?" Sandor was fairly brimming with good humor, "I thought _he_ was rude. He was practically sitting on your lap!"

Sansa snickered involuntarily, smothering the persistent smile that was demanding its appearance on her countenance. "Stop it, it's not funny!" she begged, even as another snort of laughter erupted from behind her hand.

The Hound raised one eyebrow, regarding her with amusement, "Aye, clearly not. I thought you'd about shit yourself when you turned and saw him dangling over you." He leaned closer to her ear, chuckling as he spoke, "You damn near fell off your seat."

Sansa bit her lip to hide the smile, glancing briefly at him and shaking her head in feigned disappointment at his behavior. "Be quiet, Ser, I'm trying to listen to my _favorite_ song."

"Don't know who you're talking to. Ain't a ser anywhere 'round here, _little bird._ "

Sansa turned and searched his eyes at that, her heart skipping a beat at hearing the familiar term of endearment again, spoken in the low and husky rasp which she was beginning to find pleasant. He returned her gaze boldly, cocking his head as if to challenge her to scold him once more for using it. Instead she smiled coyly and turned her attention back to the musician.

"I'll allow it," she answered softly, unable to pretend to be upset anymore.

"I know you will," he returned smugly. "You told me you liked it."

Sansa sucked in a breath and held it, closing her eyes briefly before turning to look at the Hound again. She searched his face for a moment, at a loss for how she should respond and how much she should reveal. Did he suspect that she remembered anything of that night?

"Did I tell you that?" she said, almost in a whisper.

He leaned a very little closer to her, taking in every one of her features with his gaze before giving his reply. Sansa knew she was blushing again.

"Aye, you did."

She was surprised at herself and that she was able to hold his gaze given the dangerous intimacy of their conversation, but she felt strangely emboldened. She didn't know why she was pursuing the topic, but the thrill that it produced deep within her was as intoxicating as the warm glow of the fire and the pleasant sound of the music which was lulling her into an unguarded state of being.

"Well, it was a strange thing for me to say, but I was completely drunk, so I'm not surprised."

He grinned down at her, "Aye. Wasn't even the strangest thing you said that night, either." He raised a brow knowingly.

Sansa froze, knowing that he must be referring to the kiss she'd remembered them sharing so long ago, and began mentally scrambling for an excuse to avoid answering him.

The gods, for once, answered her plea for Jem's song ended abruptly just in that moment and Sansa sprang to her feet in generous applause, overwhelmed with relief at her narrow escape. The musician bowed and begged to honor Sansa once more.

"Oh no!" She replied, a bit too eagerly, and then clarified herself. "I—I thank you, Jem, you are very kind, but I," she glanced in the direction of her tent, "I have important matters to attend to."

The Hound took her cue and got to his feet, ready to see her back to her quarters, for which she was grateful. She nodded a kind farewell to the musician and the assembly of smallfolk gathered around the campfire before taking her leave of them, Sandor Clegane following close behind.

 **-** Sandor-

If there had been a doubt in his mind regarding his previous conclusion that Sansa was attracted to him, all disbelief was suspended after observing her behavior tonight. The agitated reaction she'd had to the whore's attentions to him, her repeated blushing, and undoubtedly, the look she'd had in the depths of her blue eyes when their conversation had turned more intimate. This exquisite young woman was _attracted_ to him for some bloody unknown reason, and that realization was more than just intoxicating to him—it was damned near irresistible.

He clenched his jaw as he followed her to her tent, the sway of her nubile hips as she walked causing more than usual frustration for him. If he'd wanted her before, his newfound conviction of her interest in him had transformed a simple want into a raging desire and he began to fear that he might behave inappropriately with her if he was not on his guard at all times.

Rounding a bend brought the canvas wall of Sansa's tent into view, illuminated from within by a glowing brazier. As they drew nearer, a maidservant came through the flap carrying an empty bucket and dipped into a curtsy upon seeing them approach.

"Milady, you are just in time. I've just emptied the last bucket of hot water for your bath."

Sansa thanked and dismissed her, before glancing back at him briefly, "Brienne should return shortly to relieve you, Clegane."

It seemed that all trace of her previous attentions to him was tempered by the long, silent walk back to her tent, during which she must have convinced herself of the necessity in altering her behavior toward him.

He grunted an acknowledgement and took a seat by the entrance as Sansa disappeared through the wall of heavy fabric. It didn't help his current state of mind to know that in the next moment or two she would be undressing and _bathing_ mere feet from him. He tried not to imagine her slipping out of her gown and smallclothes.

A low growl emitted from his throat and Sandor cracked his neck in an attempt to relieve his frustration. His pulse had begun to increase substantially, the flow of blood not only coursing more hotly through his veins, but also travelling to places which would only make his current situation more uncomfortable for him. He made an attempt to focus on something else.

 _Think of that bloody stupid musician, that'll cure you, you stupid fucker._

He knew that whether she possessed an attraction to him or not, Sansa Stark would never be even remotely attainable for countless reasons, and dwelling on her in this way would only serve to frustrate him further.

Thankfully, through the darkness he recognized Brienne's lumbering form approaching the tent. She could relieve him from duty so that he could get some rest and get his mind off of the dangerous track it was currently on.

Their greeting was little more than curt nods and a quick briefing on duty times. Sandor was all too pleased to retire for the night, and he began to walk around the rear of the tent, the opposite direction from which Brienne had approached, which was a more direct route to his quarters. He'd head to his usual shared shelter and sleep off the mood he was in. Duty began before sunrise, and the last thing he needed was to have his head full of Sansa's nude body as she bathed.

He'd only gone ten paces or so before the unmistakable sound of lapping water could be heard through the thick canvas of the tent walls as he walked alongside of it, and before he knew what he was doing, he turned in the direction of the sound and gaped.

The brazier in Sansa's tent gave off more than just warmth—it lit up the entire space with a soft, golden glow. But that brazier was in the far corner, and the tub had been placed between it and the tent wall. This meant that any shape moving in between would be silhouetted perfectly against the outer canvas wall. And at the moment, that shape was Sansa, naked as her nameday.

The sensuous form of a tall, slender young woman was stepping slowly into her bathtub, and fuck it all to the seven hells if she wasn't somehow more exquisite than he'd dared imagine. Her long hair had been unbraided and it flowed freely down to the curve of her arse. Frozen in place and unable to break the spell she'd cast on him, Sandor watched like a man bewitched as she turned sideways to gently lower herself into the water, every glorious curve of her young body outlined against the canvas, even down to the erection of her nipples from the temperature change upon being freed from her woolen gown.

Sandor couldn't have said after how long he stood there, rooted to the spot, watching Sansa entering her bath. He preferred to think it was only a moment, but as time had fucking stopped he could never be quite sure. At any rate, his brain eventually began to function again and, uttering a string of curses under his breath, he marched back to the front of the tent, checking as he went that his clothing concealed the effects of what the vision—gifted him by the bloody gods themselves—had done to him.

Brienne looked surprised to see him again so soon after he'd left, but as he was not interested in prolonging the awkward explanation of why he'd returned, he jumped right to the point.

"Get a fucking blanket and go in there now," he growled lowly, jerking his head toward the tent. "Any fucker walking back there can see her entire bloody silhouette."

Brienne blinked stupidly as she frowned at him, unable to see why that information was important or why she should do anything about it.

"Did you not hear me, woman?" he asked exasperated, glancing around the corner lest some unsuspecting guardsman be given the eyeful he'd just experienced.

"I don't understand what you mean, Clegane. You can see Lady Sansa's silhouette?" Brienne squinted at him as if he was crazy.

He rolled his eyes and stepped closer to her, gesturing toward the tent in agitation, "She's fucking bathing!"

Understanding dawned on Brienne and her eyes widened in horror as she uttered a simple "Oh!"

"Yes, oh!" Sandor mocked. "Get in there and cover her somehow." He turned to go but added as an afterthought without turning around, "and don't let her know who told you of it." He ground his teeth, "It'll embarrass her."

Brienne jerked her head in acknowledgement and dashed inside. Left in silence and solitude in the cold winter evening, Sandor inhaled a deep breath and willed his pulse to stop racing.

 _Fuck!_

He saw her again, the image etched in his mind's eye in such a way that he doubted it would fade anytime soon. The curve of her backside, the slope of her breasts, the way her perfect profile had looked without her hair drawn back into a braid or the bulk of her gown and cloak to conceal her slender figure.

 _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

Just when he'd convinced himself that he needed to be more on his guard lest he do something foolish, he was unexpectedly given a vision of Sansa essentially naked and in as erotic a scene as could only have been invented in his wildest fantasy.

Sandor groaned and raked a hand through his long hair as he stormed back to his quarters. Everything about this assignment had just gotten exponentially more complicated.

Sworn shield indeed. _How do I fucking shield her from myself?_

He couldn't answer his own question, choosing instead to allow a dangerous thought to fully materialize within his mind for the first time, completely unchecked by his conscience or pride.

 _Fuck it all, I'm going to make her mine._

-Sansa-

Her heart was racing as she heard the last of his heavy footsteps fading away into the distance.

Brienne had come bustling into her tent just a moment before, snatching up the coverlet from her cot and holding it up between Sansa and the tent wall, spluttering out a clumsy explanation for her actions as she did so.

 _He saw me._

Sansa cupped a handful of the steaming water and pressed it against her face, the warm rivulets streaming down her arms and neck as they traveled lower, passing over her breasts and stomach before rejoining with the water of the tub once more. Her every sense was heightened, her core aflame. The ache emanating from deep within her lower body combined with the rush of adrenaline that had flooded her veins created a passionate mixture of emotions that was both heady and exhilarating. She closed her eyes, hoping that she was not shaking as visibly as she felt within.

Sansa had always been a victim of someone else's timing, of someone else's need. Her own sexuality as a woman was considered as unnecessary as it was unheeded within her society, but it existed just as passionately as any man's. Sansa had never explored it on her own terms before, had never been given the opportunity to pursue fulfillment of her own tentative, yet oft raging desires. Revealing her most intimate parts to another had always occurred against her own will, to a man she had not chosen, at a time when she was not interested.

Brienne, kind soul that she was as she stood beside the tub now protecting Sansa's honor, would never be able to understand what had truly occurred only moments ago. The truth that Sansa had seen her handmaiden's form in perfect outline as she'd approached the tent with the Hound. Had seen it so clearly, in fact, that she'd recognized _which_ handmaiden it was easily. A lip was bitten, a heartbeat was skipped, and a mind was overtaken by equal parts heedlessness and need. It had consumed her so completely that all of the events which followed seemed disjointed and somehow outside of the usual linear flow of time.

An intoxicating feeling of being in control, of possessing the power to create a forbidden and sensual, yet seemingly innocent occurrence had taken hold of Sansa's mind and nothing else had mattered in that moment but the pursuit of release for the churning, passionate urge rising up from deep within her. As she'd stepped forth from the shadows into the light of her brazier, the sound of his footsteps pounding in her ears from just beyond the thin canvas barrier which separated them, Sansa had closed her eyes and felt like a goddess.

No, Brienne would never know that Sansa had _chosen_ to be seen by Sandor.

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 **Til next time, thank you for reading/following/favoriting/reviewing!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Yes, yes, I'm still here! I think about this story almost daily, but with my wedding, I had little space in my brain for other pursuits. Now that's all over with, I can focus on this again. Since this was the longest break I've had in between chapters, and in honor of the new season starting in just over 2 weeks *squee* I've made this both a long one and a good one. Don't forget to shout out after, I NEED to hear from you to keep the muse satisfied!**

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Chapter 9

 _ **Discovery**_

 _-Sansa-_

She watched his lips moving as he spoke. Wind-chapped, but rather full for a man, she thought, save the corner of them which was more scar than skin. She'd never taken the time to really look at them before, no opportunity presenting itself like now where she was fully transfixed by him and yet, unable to meet his gaze. She noticed that the growth pattern of his beard was different from one side of his face, the unburned of course, to the other. There was a very small space where no whiskers grew at all; it was just beneath his bottom lip, on the burned side.

She ought to have been listening to the words being formed by those lips, words which were directed at her, but every rational thought had flown from Sansa's mind when he'd pushed through the canvas of her tent a moment ago. As she'd laid eyes on Sandor now, in the bold light of a very average morning, a morning so like the many thousands which had come before it—not at all extraordinary and utterly bereft of the bewitching effect of music and whispers shared in the firelight—the only thought remaining in her anguished mind was, " _Dear gods, what on earth was I thinking?"_

He'd said something to her upon entering, but she'd averted her gaze immediately, overwhelmed by embarrassment as her mind insisted upon replaying her actions from the night before over and over to her.

This is how Sansa found herself now, lost in intense scrutiny of a bare section of the man's beard as a preferable occupation for her mind than in allowing it to continue torturing her with memories of the night before, or even to engage it in the more reasonable application for which it was wanted at present—that of actually listening to him.

With a start, Sansa realized that it had grown very silent in the space between them. The lips she had been so dutifully studying seemed to have ceased their movement entirely. Reluctantly, she drew her gaze up to meet his, noting immediately that his strong, cynical brows were knitted together in an expression suggesting that he might truly believe she had completely lost her mind.

"Did you even hear one damned thing I said?"

The spell was broken. This was real life and she was acting like a fool.

Blinking rapidly Sansa attempted to shake her mind free of its nonsense while she scrambled for an excuse.

"Hmmm? Oh! Forgive me, I—" she glanced over her shoulder distractedly, "I slept very poorly last night and am having trouble focusing this morning." She pinched the bridge of her nose and squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, adding a convincing sigh, "I'm just tired, is all. What were you saying?"

His expression shifted to one of mild disbelief at her fabricated explanation, but he did not pursue it any further.

"Well. I was just giving the morning camp report, but we'll not bother with that now. The main bit is that Ser Jaime is waiting outside, he says he needs to speak with you."

He spoke with such exaggerated patience and careful enunciation that Sansa very nearly rolled her eyes at him. Sandor was always just a hair's breadth from impertinence and somehow an absolute expert at provoking her to agitation. But now was not the time for retaliation.

In truth, she was only upset with herself for the unwelcomed desires which had begun revealing themselves without provocation over the last several days; desires which were consistently and inexplicably directed at the man standing before her now. But she would hash all of that out another time. In fact, a thorough self-examination followed by a scathing mental rebuke would work wonders in keeping her mind engaged later whilst traveling the long, boring road to White Harbor.

For now, Ser Jaime was waiting outside and, no doubt, Brienne was two feet behind him, fawning over his golden locks and golden hand. Sansa sighed as she turned toward her desk and took a seat behind it, preparing to get the audience over with sooner rather than later. She'd been expecting it anyway, ever since she'd walked away from a flustered Brienne the night before. Ever since she'd caught sight of Sandor sitting by the fire and…

 _Stop thinking of it, you idiot!_ was what she thought, but what she spoke was, "Send him in, then."

Sandor stood up straighter as he prepared to step outside but hesitated just long enough to catch her gaze.

Their eyes locked for an instant.

He'd always had a way of looking straight _through_ her as no one else could. The expression of his eyes as they settled upon her with such penetrating clarity would cause an average moment in time to bend to his intensity, trapping her breath in the back of her throat and sending a shock of flame searing through her breast and stomach. It was happening far more often now, but this time Sansa was certain that he'd done it consciously and with some intention behind it. But before she could fully process this thought, Sandor dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement and ducked back through the flap of her tent.

Sansa closed her eyes as she slowly released the breath she'd been holding, taking extra care not to notice the little shudder which passed through her lips at the end.

The smug, perfectly chiseled face of Jaime Lannister was now opposite her, and as Sansa had much less interest in studying it than the one which had come before, she only glanced at him long enough to nod him into the empty seat before turning her attention back to the pen and parchment that lay before her, and the task which had so recently been abandoned following Sandor's entrance. She had been dutifully filling in an inventory log that morning, and as the work was tedious enough to allow both for dreadful recollections of her past behavior _and_ casual conversation, she now resumed the task, quietly dipping her quill in ink before addressing her guest.

"I believe dawn was at least two hours ago, Ser Jaime." She was copying numbers from a new report given her by Maester Fennec into a leather-bound book, translating the maester's rough scratches into her own perfectly executed calligraphy. "I thought you would have left camp by now," she remarked, without looking up from her work.

"Indeed, Lady Stark," Jaime replied, and then briefly hesitated as the quill in Sansa's hand continued to scratch out numbers upon parchment. "I did have every intention of continuing on to Winterfell this morning."

He began tapping a finger on the wooden surface of the table, but whether he meant it as a means of gathering her undivided attention or as a form of fidgeting, Sansa cared equally little.

"And? What has become of this 'intention?'" She scratched out _twenty-three_ from a column labeled _Livestock: Goats_ and replaced it with _twenty-one._

"Well. That was before your own sworn shield, Brienne, came to speak with me and—"

"And she bids that you would continue the journey to Meereen with our humble caravan?" Sansa responded dryly, dropping the quill into the inkpot and folding her hands on the table as she met Jaime's gaze for the first time.

The Kingslayer evaluated her silently for a moment before replying, "Exactly. I see that you were expecting this, Lady Stark."

This was spoken as a statement instead of a question, even though he seemed surprised that he was apparently the only one who had been unaware that such an invitation would be extended.

"Of course I was expecting it," Sansa placed an elbow on the table, absently glancing in the direction of her now cold brazier and pressing her knuckles against her lips in contemplation. "My shield favors you for reasons which completely escape me."

Jaime shifted in his seat, a strained smile appearing on his countenance as he responded, "Lady Sansa, I understand you don't like me, and you have every reason not to. I would not have considered staying on with your company, but Brienne believes that I will be of greater use here than in the battle against the army of the dead with this," he held up his gilded hand. "And I'm afraid she has a point. I did not bring an army with me, I only rode north to make your side aware of the falseness of my sister's promise and I've done that," he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. "Now all that remains for me is to find where I can be of the most use in the war for the living."

Sansa raised one eyebrow, "And why do you believe that would be here? What use would you be to my caravan?"

"I am an experienced soldier and commander. And Bronn would remain with me, he's not interested in separating himself just yet from the man who owes him a castle, amongst other things. He has lived in Essos, you may do well to have someone in your company with knowledge of the continent."

Sansa gave a contemptuous little laugh and pushed herself to her feet. "Bronn is little more than sarcasm and swordplay, you will not find me seeking him out for counsel. And you would be as little use to me as he would, aside from being two extra mouths to feed." She looked down at him coldly, "You're right, I neither like you, nor trust you, Ser Jaime. I would sooner send you on to be Jon or Daenerys' problem than keep you in my caravan."

He returned her glare with a solemn expression, his jaw working soundlessly as he considered his reply carefully.

Sansa withdrew a few paces, clasping her hands behind her back, she continued speaking to him over one shoulder, "But I do trust Brienne. And I'm not interested in fighting her over this," she turned and faced him. "If you'd rather join our company than become another wight in the army of the dead, I will allow it. But understand, Ser Jaime, that if you stay, you will be under _my_ command."

Pausing for emphasis, Sansa watched with satisfaction as Jaime shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"I was given command of this mission by the Dragon Queen and by the King in the North who is also the rightful heir to the Iron Throne." In a few steps she'd closed the space between them, leaning against the table she looked directly into his eyes and spoke in a tone of unwavering authority. "Your rank, your house is of no consequence here. If you and Bronn choose to travel to Meereen with us, you will follow every order I give and be fully subject to my authority or you will leave. Do you understand, _Ser Jaime Lannister_?"

Each syllable of his name was enunciated slowly and deliberately, for Sansa was determined that this man fully understand her gravity before making his decision. With brows raised in equanimity above a penetrating cobalt stare, she awaited his response.

Jaime looked down at his golden hand with a soft, ironic chuckle, as if he'd never in his life imagined he'd be in the position in which he currently found himself. The great Jaime Lannister, son of the richest house in Westeros, brother of the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, captain of the Kingsguard and one of the most renowned fighters in the country—reduced to a common soldier under the command of a woman.

With a curt nod of resignation, he finally looked back up at her.

"Of course, Lady Stark. How long do I have to consider your proposal?"

Sansa withdrew her hands from the table and strode coolly to the entrance of her tent. Drawing the flap aside, she called out to Sandor.

"When will the camp be ready to march?"

Her shield glanced sideways at her, an expression of mild amusement in his eyes as he'd apparently heard the entire exchange between them.

"Looks like the wagons are nearly loaded and the women are here waiting to pull down your tent." He jerked his chin in their direction.

Sansa nodded and turned back to Jaime, "You heard him? You have _that_ long. Once we march, if you're heading north, you'll give your farewells. If you're heading south, you'll give your allegiance."

* * *

-Sandor-

No one was more surprised than himself at Jaime Lannister's decision to follow their caravan and subject himself to Sansa's authority. The two knights met Lady Stark at the head of the column just before their march had commenced and made a show of committing themselves to her purpose, of protecting the people she led and following wherever the journey would take them.

Whether it was the Kingslayer's desire to avoid battling the army of the dead or to remain in the company of Brienne, Sandor couldn't be sure, but he suspected a little of the former and primarily the latter. The interest that the big bitch and Jaime had for one another was as obvious as it was repulsive to Sandor, but he would be lying to himself if he pretended that he wasn't in a similar predicament. He glanced at Sansa where she rode just a little in front of him.

 _"She'll be the death of me,"_ he said to himself, for at least the tenth time that day.

After surviving a long and restless night during which he had alternately reveled in and berated himself for the carnal direction his mind had taken for Sansa, he'd finally risen before dawn and relieved Brienne early, just so he could be near her once more. His pulse had quickened every time he'd heard her shifting in her sleep through the canvas walls of her tent, and when the gentle awakening, brought on by the first rays of the winter sun, had caused a throaty moan to escape from her lips, he'd been forced to rise and begin pacing about in an attempt to shake off the intense arousal she'd stirred within him.

All of that was only just this morning—a morning which seemed to have lasted longer than any that had come before it, and one in which Sansa had been acting even more strangely than usual. Sandor found her easily distracted and wondered if her absence of mind was due to embarrassment related to the incident which had necessitated Brienne entering her tent the night before, bringing stammered apologies and forced modesty in the form of a fur coverlet.

Whatever the inducement, the Sansa of the last two days was markedly different than the one with whom he'd set out on this journey. Her behavior toward him had lost much of its frigidity, and while she was still every bit the confident and fiery young woman whom he'd found in the courtyard of Winterfell scarce ten days ago, the small moments that she shared with _him_ , be they just a stolen glance or a few words pertaining to duty, were different. There was an uncertainty within her now; a coy hesitancy in her looks and demeanor which had begun to drive him wild, especially when coupled with the newfound belief he held of her attraction for him.

It seemed to Sandor that there only remained the necessity of finding a way to prove this hunch—to convince him beyond a shadow of a doubt that Sansa wanted him too.

He had to get her to act upon it.

He glanced at her form as she rode ahead of him, her thick, fur-crested cloak concealing the beauty hidden beneath it only for as long as he kept his mind in check. For the moment that it was granted access to his memory of her from the night before, he envisioned every lovely curve of her body as clearly as if she were astride the horse naked. And though he'd only seen the silhouette of her disrobed figure, just a fire-shadow likeness of the real thing, he now understood that being granted a glimpse of her intimately was no longer just a wild, unattainable fantasy. The idea of undressing the woman who had become his obsession and devouring every inch of her skin with hungry eyes had been inching closer and closer to reality with each day that passed, to the point where it was now actually within the realm of possibility.

Sandor couldn't remember a time when he'd ever felt so alive.

She tilted her chin skyward, her gaze slowly following a flock of birds as it passed gracefully overhead, so that after a moment or two, he could see her full profile. A delicate and unconstrained smile pulled at the corners of her lovely mouth as she watched them disappear into the eastern horizon, until, without warning, Sansa's gaze fell upon him.

The deepest azure he'd ever seen, her eyes made the sky beyond appear a dull gray in comparison. They held his gaze steadily, a remnant of the same smile still on her lips, only slightly transformed by the addition of what might be a hint of coyness, he thought. She slowed her mount just enough to allow them to ride abreast so that she might speak to him without straining her neck.

"Brienne said that we shall reach White Harbor today. She remembers from your journey to Winterfell."

Sandor nodded, grateful that she would remain ignorant of how his heartrate had increased dramatically from his interpretation of the look in her eyes.

"Aye. Few more hours at this pace and we'll see the harbor." He glanced down at her, "Tired of camping already, Lady Stark? Missing all the comforts of castle life?"

She did not give him the satisfaction of reacting to his teasing, instead owning the truth of his statement with a slight shrug of her shoulders.

"Well. I am not my sister, if that's what you mean. Arya could live like this easily, as I'm sure you remember." She looked up at him with a wry smile, "but _my_ arse is sick to death of riding."

Sandor raised his eyebrows and chuckled huskily, "Your pretty talk ain't what it used to be. I don't reckon a _proper_ lady would ever say arse."

"Well, it's a good thing you're not a proper lady, Sandor," she quipped.

He laughed heartily at that, taken by surprise at her quick humor, and Sansa allowed another cautious grin before continuing.

"The 'proper lady' that I was died when she married Ramsay."

His laugh faded as quickly as it had begun, the spark of humor extinguished by the mention of the name he hated more than any other, save perhaps _Gregor._

But Sansa was not in a humor for self-pity. Instead she tossed her auburn braid over one shoulder and sighed almost dreamily, "But Ramsay is dead, and Sansa Stark is _not_. I may not be the same lady I was, but I like to think I'm less of a fawning little idiot," she fought to hide the now full smile that was insisting on displaying itself, endearing her further to him in the process, "even if I have adopted language which would make my septa roll in her grave."

Sandor chuckled softly, "Aye," he paused in careful study of her features, "I'd wager it's an improvement, though."

She stole a sideways glance at him, choosing for the moment to ignore the gentle compliment.

"Tell me, Sandor. I have been curious since the moment I first saw you again, riding into Winterfell like the Stranger himself. How are you still alive?"

He snorted a surprised little laugh and Sansa hastened to clarify, "I mean to say, when Arya told me her story, she said she'd left you to die of fever." Sansa paused and glanced hesitantly at his thigh, "She said your leg was diseased and that you were delirious. And she was certain you'd died."

A chill passed through Sandor's chest as he remembered what he'd told Arya in that moment.

 _"Your pretty sister—I should have taken her…I should have fucked her bloody."_

He glanced at her cautiously, swallowing his concern about what else Arya might have shared with Sansa before he gave her an answer.

"I should've died. I was discovered by a septon before I did," he shrugged. "There's not much more to it. He helped me regain my health, so I stayed with him and his followers. Until some fuckers came and murdered them all."

Sansa's brow furrowed with concern, "Did you fight them? How did you escape?"

He glanced away into the distance, grinding his teeth as he saw Septon Ray's body dangling from the naked rafters of an unfinished sept as vividly as if the massacre had been only yesterday.

"No, I didn't fight them. I was chopping wood in the forest. By the time I heard anything," he shook his head, "it was too late."

"I'm sorry," Sansa replied, with a sympathetic glance at him, "that must have been awful."

He looked back at her for a long moment with only a blank expression on his countenance, until finally a strained smile stretched across his face beneath the wild beard.

"Aye. But I got my revenge. I found the Brotherhood preparing to execute them and they gave me two of the three fuckers to hang. I rode with them until we reached Eastwatch where your brother found us. You know the rest."

"Yes."

For a few moments they continued on in a relative silence which was only punctuated by the steady plodding of their horses' hooves into the fresh snow and the slightly more distant, yet ever-constant ambient noise of thousands of people, wagons, and animals on the move.

Sansa pulled at the reins of her mare abruptly, coaxing the beast into a halt so unexpectedly that he outpaced her for a moment before he succeeded in bringing his own horse to a stop. Turning in his saddle, he stared at her in bewilderment.

"I'm glad you didn't die, Sandor," she began softly, urging her mount closer to his as she held his gaze steadily.

He narrowed his eyes in suspicion of the unusual sentimentality from her, but she continued before he could respond.

"I'm glad you came to Winterfell with Jon."

Lowering her voice, she lost a bit of the confidence in her tone, but continued to look him straight in the eyes.

"And I'm grateful you agreed to be my shield."

If she expected a reply from him, she was soon to be disappointed. Sandor was too much stunned at such an admission to do anything more than stare at her in utter shock and disbelief.

But Sansa understood him far more than he realized. With a knowing smile, she slowly reached across and stroked his horse affectionately between the ears, allowing her confession to fully settle upon him, while neither desiring nor expecting a reply. She lifted her long, fine lashes for one final look into his eyes before allowing her gaze to drop away, gently nudging her gray mare to take her lead once more.

* * *

 _-Sansa-_

By midafternoon, the caravan from Winterfell had reached White Harbor. For the better part of an hour, a seemingly unending stream of people, wagons, and livestock from the north poured into the city, but Sansa did not remain long to observe. From almost the moment in which the city had come into view in the distance, set up on a hill with the deep blue harbor beyond it filled almost to capacity with Daenerys' ships, an envoy from House Manderly had greeted them and escorted Lady Stark and the other highborn members of their caravan on to New Castle.

The city had been well prepared for their arrival, with large shelters arranged in advance for the massive crowds of people, and the ships which would take them to Meereen already well-stocked with provisions, ready to set sail. At Jon's command, the fighting men sworn to House Manderly had remained in the city where they would stay until Sansa's caravan had put to sea, with the addition of the people of White Harbor, at which point all the remaining able-bodied men and women would travel North to Winterfell for the battle, bringing much needed supplies with them.

True to what she'd told Sandor earlier that day, Sansa was palpably relieved to be hosted in a castle once more. Riding was all well and good in small doses, but she'd had about as much of it as she cared to have for quite some time. Though she had not spent much of her young life at sea, Sansa had never been prone to seasickness and was already looking forward to the next leg of their journey, despite the apprehension she felt about their destination. She would have a cabin with a proper bed to sleep in and no horse between her legs for eight hours daily, which by itself was nearly cause for celebration given her current physical condition in which she complained of more aches and pains than she would have believed possible for a woman of only nineteen.

Sansa was shown to the finest guest quarters the castle had to offer. The four-poster bed, which would require a stepping stool just to climb into it, was large enough to sleep four of her and piled so high with cushions and furs that she wondered whether she might suffocate in it. In fact, everything about this castle was reflective of its very extravagant and, for lack of a better word, very _large_ lords and ladies. For it was a well-known truth in all of the Seven Kingdoms that House Manderly boasted some of the fattest men in all of Westeros.

Lord Manderly himself had been so thrilled at the prospect of hosting the daughter of his late liege Lord and the current Lady of Winterfell that he'd insisted upon serving her a proper feast upon their arrival, an honor which Sansa had initially protested as being completely unnecessary but was soon overruled. The Manderlys, who obviously appreciated food more than most, were not like to turn down an opportunity to have as much of it as possible on any given occasion and Sansa suspected that a feast would have been had in New Castle that evening whether she'd been their honored guest or not.

Regardless of the reason, the opportunity to present herself as a lady once more was not something which she would take for granted. She was able to bathe in comfort, to use oils and combs and to wear proper clothing again. Sansa was immensely grateful, and though a part of her felt guilty for indulging in such frivolous pleasures while her loved ones were undoubtedly preparing to face off with an army of dead men, she truly could not help herself.

It was not the only pleasure currently causing her guilt, either. For, despite a prolonged mental effort primarily centered around shaming herself into altering her behavior toward Sandor, she'd ended up in a worse position than the one in which she'd started. She'd spent nearly an hour on the road earlier that day in going over every possible reason why she was feeling and acting the way she was toward him and then attempting to redirect her attentions elsewhere. In the end, when faced with the very object of her predicament, she'd caved wholeheartedly to emotion and the sensations that he stirred within her—sensations to which she feared she was becoming addicted.

 _No matter,_ she told herself now as she used one finger to apply fragrance just beneath her ears and in the hollow of her throat, _my mind is my own. No one need ever know what passes through it._

With a final appraising look, only slightly tinged with defiance, Sansa turned away from the looking glass, and took her leave from her chambers.

She met Brienne at the door, also freshly bathed and changed, and together they made their way down to the main hall for the feast. The current plan would have them putting to sea at first light, day after tomorrow, and Sansa reasoned that this may be the last opportunity she would have in some time to eat well. Perhaps a feast had not been such a bad idea after all.

The castle's large dining hall was warm and inviting, with ten hearths ablaze and every candle lighted. It was surrounded on three sides by an oversized and impressively manicured veranda which looked out upon the harbor for spectacular views of the sea. She had seen and walked its full length as a girl during a visit to New Castle once with her father, and although most of the doors accessing it were currently closed to retain the warmth in the hall due to the season, Sansa looked forward with great anticipation to visiting it later that evening.

As they approached their table, Sansa noticed minstrels playing softly in the alcoves and even spied a juggler entertaining some of the younger guests off in a far corner of the vast room. For all that might be said of Lord Manderly, it was apparent that the man enjoyed his wealth and position in life immensely.

Sansa was seated at the main table with the lord of the castle and his family and with the other young lords and ladies who had traveled south in the caravan. They feasted upon every good thing one might expect from a harbor town. There were mussels and eel, fresh oysters and crab legs spiced and dipped in butter. Creamed soup with clams and potatoes and fried halibut served on beds of seaweed with plenty of rich Arbor wine to wash it all down. Lord Manderly had even had roast lamb and venison prepared to better suit the palates of the Lady of Winterfell and his other northern guests.

After thoroughly indulging herself in far more delectable food and drink than was prudent, Sansa stood and prepared to politely excuse herself from the table.

"But my lady, you will not go far I hope?" Lord Manderly fretted, lifting his goblet in the direction of the minstrels, "for I've just requested some dances! The ladies of New Castle will never allow me to feast them without providing them an opportunity to dance after." He winked with good humor at his two granddaughters who tittered and glanced unabashedly in the direction of Jaime and Bronn.

Sansa cringed inwardly as the vibrant notes of a popular jig began to resonate throughout the hall. She would not be prevailed upon to dance by any inducement, but she smiled and gave a polite little curtsy, knowing exactly how to pacify men like Lord Manderly.

"Oh yes, perhaps in a few minutes, my lord, only at the moment I can scarcely stand after being feasted so excellently! I do remember your lovely veranda from my visit to New Castle once as a child, I should very much like to see it in the meantime. You'll excuse me, won't you, my lord?" She gave him her prettiest smile.

Flattery was as good as gold in bending people to one's will, Sansa had learned, and Lord Manderly's jowls wobbled in delight as he heartily nodded his consent.

"Of course, of course Lady Stark. Wendel will look for you later on the dance floor, I have no doubt!" he called after her, even as she hastened to reach the veranda before Wendel could do any such thing.

Brienne followed her out, having temporarily replaced Sandor after their arrival at New Castle so that he might also freshen up before supper; her time on duty did not normally begin until after sundown. Sansa, however, scarcely noticed her shield as she made for the edge of the terrace where a picturesque view of the harbor awaited her.

She leaned against the thick stone railing and closed her eyes for a moment, allowing the crisp winter breeze to whip the loose strands of hair all about her face and turn her cheeks a deep and vibrant pink, matching almost exactly the color of both sea and sky in the wake of the setting sun. The cold was a welcome sensation after the stifling heat of the dining hall and Sansa hardly felt the absence of her heavy fur cloak, too taken up by the beauty of the sea which stretched out before her as far as her eyes could see.

"Why aren't you dancing?"

She turned to see her other sworn shield standing with his hands clasped behind his back and one brow raised in silent query. She mentally scolded herself for being so absorbed in her surroundings that she hadn't even heard them switching positions for duty.

Sansa turned back toward the harbor, resting her forearms once more against the balustrade. "I don't dance anymore."

"And why not? Prefer to sulk out here, is that it?" He joined her at the railing, leaning over it as she did and glancing down at her with interest.

She made a face, "I'm not sulking. They've only decided on dancing because Lord Manderly would be beside himself if I gave his youngest son the time of day."

He chuckled, "And what's wrong with that? The Sansa Stark I knew would never have missed an opportunity for a dance."

She flipped the strand of hair she'd been toying with over her shoulder with a little snicker. "The Sansa Stark you knew was just a girl. I've forgotten how to dance."

A hoarse laugh rumbled up from deep in his chest, "Well now, that's a lie."

She smiled even as she cast a scornful look in his direction, "How would you know? Anyway, I'd sooner dance with a wight than one of those odious men tripping over the opportunity to ally themselves with my title," she scoffed, hugging herself against the wind which was now beginning to bite.

"Well, considering what's coming for us, you might just get your wish." He chuckled and jerked his head in the direction of the hall, "Go dance, this may be the last one you'll ever have."

Sansa stuck out her chin, her arms crossed against her chest, "No, thank you for your concern," she replied sarcastically, "but I'd rather stay here."

Pushing himself away from the balustrade, Sandor turned to face her.

"All right. Music reaches out here just fine. You can dance here," he held out his hand to her.

Sansa nearly stumbled as she took a step backward in total shock, a look of incredulity on her face.

"What? You're mad," she shook her head in disbelief, "you can't—you don't know how to…"

The uncertainty and confusion which she felt must have been his intent, for a coy grin twisted the marred flesh of his cheek as he replied.

"I was raised as the son of a knight and I've spent almost my entire life at court watching the lot of you at your _dancing_. Of course I know how." He dipped his head slightly, 'My lady,'" he added with a wink.

Sansa was far too shocked to even attempt to maintain a solemn countenance and the laugh which bubbled up from her belly was as genuine as it was girlish. Gingerly, she placed her small, cold hand into his large one.

"All right. Since you won't leave it alone," she took a step toward him and glanced up into his face hesitantly, "I can't believe I'm letting you do this," she murmured, more to herself than to him.

Sandor grinned and pulled her close immediately, his other hand wrapping around her small waist as he stepped directly into the dance with impeccable timing.

Sansa gasped softly, taken aback by the sudden closeness between them, but equally as stunned by the unexpected agility and skill with which he moved. He knew every step, every turn, directing her almost as expertly as her dancing master once had when she was little more than a girl in the great hall of Winterfell.

"How…how did you learn to dance so well?" Sansa breathed, her deep blue eyes opened wide in awe.

His chuckle seemed to reverberate through her as he led her into a spin before pulling her close again.

"I'm a fighter, Sansa. Precision and timing is everything."

She stared at him incredulously, suddenly feeling as if she didn't know this man at all.

"Dancing is easy compared with swordplay," he added.

They withdrew from one another for a few moments to make wide circles around invisible people for, like most Westerosi dances, this one was meant to be performed in a group. Sansa was overcome with the absolute absurdity of the moment and couldn't contain another giggle.

Sandor grinned back at her. "See, you did lie. You know the steps just fine."

She rolled her eyes with a playful grin. "Sandor..."

"Sansa."

She laughed as he took her hand again and drew her against his chest once more, "Well, _you_ lied to me the other night."

"Didn't I tell you that a dog never lies?" He chuckled, looking down into her eyes, "when did I lie to you?"

"You denied that you'd kissed me," she blurted out, color springing to her cheeks almost before she'd finished speaking. Sansa bit her lip and looked out over the harbor, instantly regretting her words.

Sandor slowed his steps and narrowed his eyes at her. Her hastily murmured confession and the implications it held had altered the mood instantaneously, his playfulness now giving way to suspicion.

"The night you were drunk? You said you didn't remember anything..."

Chagrined and unprepared for the sudden change of subject which she'd introduced, Sansa shrunk away from him and brushed a loose curl behind her ear. She opened her mouth to speak and then closed it quickly before dropping her gaze to study the intricate stone pattern beneath her boots.

"That's—that's not what we're discussing right now. You lied about kissing me." She fidgeted with her hands, preferring to look anywhere but at him.

Sandor raised one eyebrow in disbelief, "We are discussing it. You accuse me of lying while in the middle of one of your own. You _do_ remember that night, don't you? Every bit of it."

He took a step closer to her, challenging her to deny it, but she only crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin slightly.

Sandor snorted a scornful laugh as he glared down at her, "Aye, I see how it is. Trained by the best. Cersei. Littlefinger. Nothing I shouldn't have expected."

Sansa rolled her eyes and huffed, annoyed that he was trying to shift the focus onto her, but he continued before she could respond, "But to answer your _accusation,_ I didn't lie about kissing you. I've never kissed you."

She drew back in disbelief, "You still deny it? You did! The night of the battle when you came to my room, I remember it as clearly as anything!"

He snickered disdainfully, "You've imagined it then."

"Imagined?!" She took a step closer to him, incensed by such an absurd suggestion. "Why on earth would I _imagine_ something like that? I know what you came to me for!"

"Do you now?" Sandor hissed. "I came to you for _you,_ woman!" he growled between his teeth, grasping her by the upper arm as he searched her eyes intensely, "I came to take you with me…to take you home and get you out of that shithole!"

"Not _only_ that," Sansa spat back at him, wrenching herself free of his grasp. "I saw it in your eyes! I may have been young, but I saw what you wanted! Don't pretend that you didn't want to tear my clothes off and fuck me," she spoke the last words in a venomous whisper, her face inches from his. "The truth doesn't scare me anymore, Sandor Clegane. _Nothing_ you could have done scares me anymore, because I've lived all of that and worse! I only want to know why you continue to deny the truth."

If her crude words shocked him, he didn't show it. There was only anger left on his countenance when he responded to her.

"Aye…I was drunk…might be I did want to fuck you." Sansa tried to ignore the way her stomach flipped at this admission, attempting to focus on his response and her forthcoming retort. "But I didn't, did I? Just like I didn't kiss you. But you," he jabbed a finger at her face, "you refused to be reasonable. Aye, I wanted to frighten you because I knew you'd be safer with me than with Stannis."

"So, I was imagining the kiss then, is that what you're saying?" She balled her hands into fists, "I suppose I also imagined your body crushing me into my bed, demanding a song from me? Imagined your knife at my throat?" she recounted bitterly. "You've admitted all of that to be true, but this one thing is just my imagination?"

Sandor ground his teeth in frustration, looking out into the harbor for a few moments to temper his response. When he turned back to her he drew a step closer, meeting her gaze now with something of a sadness in his eyes.

"Sansa. I already apologized to you for all of that, didn't I? Doesn't it count for something that I _didn't_ do what you accuse me of?"

She felt a twinge of remorse. He _had_ apologized.

Swallowing hard she stuck her chin out in defiance, "So you didn't rape me, good, thank you for that," she replied sarcastically. "You didn't slit my throat, I'm forever indebted to you."

Sansa dipped into a little curtsy, a murderous look in her eyes. "I believe I'll retire for the night. I _imagine_ you're able to find my quarters for duty, Clegane."

With a fierce glare of finality, she gripped her skirts and whirled around, leaving an exasperated Sandor without a partner as the final notes of the dance faded away into the wind.

* * *

-Sandor-

He watched her storm away and raked a hand through his hair in agitation. That woman was as fucking complicated as she was alluring. Of all the women he could obsess over, he had to fall for one who possibly had more demons than he did.

He waited until she'd rounded the bend before slowly following her. He was still on duty for another quarter-hour and he would not leave her unguarded.

Upon reaching her quarters, he took up his position beside her door.

 _Don't try to pretend that you didn't want to tear my clothes off and fuck me!_

He cracked his neck, still seething with frustration. How was it possible that he wanted to both wring her neck and make love to her until she screamed his name?

 _Did I also imagine your knife at my throat?_

Yes, he supposed that had always been the little complication in how he felt about Sansa. He'd always been torn by the fact that she both enraged and aroused him more than any woman had ever done. Luckily, he'd been successful thus far in not acting upon either of the desires she invoked in him.

Thus far.

He heard movement in the chambers directly behind the door and before he could process what was happening, it cracked open just enough to allow her voice to pass through uninhibited.

"Come."

Though surprised, he did as he was bid, glancing first up and down the hallway before stepping quietly into the room and closing the door behind him. When he turned around, she was standing nearer than he'd thought to find her, looking up into his face steadily and with a calmness to her countenance that had not been there earlier.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes briefly before speaking.

"You say a dog never lies…obviously implying that _you_ don't lie."

"Aye."

"And you _did_ come to me the very day that you arrived at Winterfell. You sought me out to ask my forgiveness for the way you'd treated me that night of the Blackwater. I remember thinking it very unusual."

He did not respond, except to put his hands behind his back and stand up to his full height.

She continued, backing away just enough to begin pacing the room a little, "It doesn't make sense that you would apologize for that, while lying about a kiss."

She chuckled ironically, more to herself than to him. "It seems like such a ridiculous thing for me to be so concerned about, but," she paused and stared at him curiously. "But I _remember_ it happening. For years I've thought of it, wondered about it," she approached him again slowly, "I would even ask myself why you did it."

Sandor looked at her in disbelief, but she continued.

" _You_ say it never happened," she closed her eyes and took a deep breath before gazing determinedly at him. "I want you to prove that to me."

Sandor scoffed, "Well that's nice, but I'm not your three-eyed-raven brother, I don't know how you expect me to prove anything—"

"I want you to _prove_ it to me," she interrupted him with a penetrating gaze, slowly drawing nearer to him until she was within arm's length. "I remember it a certain way. If it's not that way, I'll know it never happened."

His eyes narrowed with sudden understanding and he took a step closer until he was looking down into her upturned face, their bodies mere inches from one another, "How do you remember it?"

She cast her gaze down demurely as she responded softly, "I can't tell you that. Yet."

"Yet," he grinned knowingly as he gently took her face in his large hand and pulled her close until his lips were nearly brushing her ear.

"If you want me to kiss you, Sansa," he rasped huskily, his thumb traveling ever so lightly across the soft skin of her cheek as he searched her eyes, "then say it."

Sansa's voice trembled, but she responded without hesitation, "I want you to kiss me."

He didn't need to be told twice. Everything that wasn't her seemed to fall away in that moment, disappearing into insignificance as he pulled Sansa in and lowered his face to meet hers.

He placed a soft, chaste kiss upon her perfect lips, the lips that had driven him mad only minutes ago, lips that were as red as her hair and as supple and full as the breasts that now pressed against his jerkin. Heat seared through his veins as he reached for her waist, engulfing it in one large palm and drawing her flush against him as he covered her mouth with his. Her lips parted cautiously, allowing him the first tiny taste of her, and swiftly removing the last shred of his restraint. Sansa's sharp inhalation of breath as he forced her mouth open with his own soon became a stifled moan when he gripped the back of her neck tighter and deepened the kiss.

The embrace lasted only for as long as he dared, though not as long as he would have liked, for he knew how quickly he could lose himself in her, and she'd only asked for a kiss.

Both hands now cradled her upturned face while long, auburn hair cascaded over them. Sandor drew back just enough for a glimpse of Sansa as he always wanted to remember her—eyes closed, long lashes resting against her flushed cheeks, and a ragged breath shuddering from between the lips that had been his to taste. After years of longing, Sandor finally knew what it was to embrace Sansa Stark as if he were not a cursed man, and she were not an impossible attainment.

Her eyes fluttered open and passed quickly back and forth between his as he attempted to regain his senses and slow his now racing pulse. He withdrew his hands from her face reluctantly.

"And?" he queried, a sly half grin pulling at one corner of his mouth, "what have you gathered from this?"

Sansa slowly let her hands fall away from his chest, panting slightly and looking up at him with an air of confusion about her. Her gaze passed from his eyes, down to his lips, and then took in his whole form before coming back to his eyes again. Finally, she responded in a shuddering half-whisper.

"That I've lost my damned mind."

She threw her arms around his neck and returned his kiss with a passion and ferocity that he would only expect from a Stark of Winterfell. The barrier had been crossed; Sansa wanted him back and he would not restrain himself for a moment longer.

A growl erupted from his throat, low and demanding as he grasped both of her hips in his huge hands and backed her roughly against the wall. She moaned into his mouth as his tongue fought with hers, his hands traveling every inch of her body in a whirlwind of desire. This was not a dream, not a fantasy—Sansa was not only willing, but she was as desirous as he was, pulling him into her, desperately needing him as he needed her. Cheeks, brows, ears, he kissed them all indiscriminately, so long as he could finally consume as much of her as he pleased. Their frantic breaths mingled together, heating the space between them as much as their own flushed skin, hair falling anywhere and everywhere around them as each tried to gain more access to the other.

Reaching for her thighs, Sandor hoisted her suddenly into the air, her back pressed against the cold stone, bringing her face at a level with his. She gasped in surprise, but he covered her mouth with his before she could protest and leaned into her, closing every gap which had remained between them. The weight of his large body kept her pinned against the wall, both of her legs spread open around him with only bits of fabric separating their most intimate places. Gripping the outside of her thigh, Sandor buried his face into the curve of her neck, feverishly kissing and nibbling at the delicate skin he found there. Sansa's eyes closed as her head fell backward, her hands clinging to his neck and shoulders, ragged breaths shuddering from her open mouth. He slid his other hand up her bodice, enclosing one firm breast with his palm and squeezing it heavily through the thick wool of her dress, eliciting an impassioned moan which escaped unchecked from the ivory throat that heaved beneath his lips.

A sharp knock instantly ceased all movement between them. Sansa gasped loudly, eyes grown wide in alarm, before Sandor placed a finger over her lips. They both looked toward the door in apprehension.

Brienne's voice, the most unwelcome sound Sandor had ever heard in his life, came sharply through the heavy wooden door.

"Lady Sansa? Are you in there? Clegane has some explaining to do!"


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:**

 **I have to take a moment to say a HUGE thank you SO much to all the new readers/reviewers. I have been so overwhelmed by all the support and the sweet congratulations from everyone. Y'all are seriously the best!**

 **Also, since the season started, I have found it difficult to go from the show to this story. Mostly because I started this story as a variation of what season 8 would be, so like its own storyline. But naturally, as new stuff happens in the show, it messes with my head in writing this, so I've been a little weirded out by that. I did have most of this chapter fleshed out before episodes 2 and 3, so if you see similarities, that was organic, lol. Also I don't know why, but this chapter was a huge bitch to edit, so thank you for your patience with me!**

 **But y'all that Sansan moment last episode, yasssssss. I had given up on getting anything from them, so I was like bouncing up and down excited. I can die happy now, I don't care if that's all they get. It was a moment and I'll live out the rest of my Sansan obsession here for you all. Thank you a million and I'm so glad I'm not the only one obsessed with this pairing.**

* * *

Chapter 10

 ** _Tenacity_**

-Sansa-

Wide, reproachful blue eyes shot back and forth between herself and Sandor in equal parts shock and confusion. Brienne's mouth opened as if to speak, and then closed just as quickly with a bewildered furrow of her brow.

Without a moment's hesitation Sansa's quick mind began creating a pretext for the unusual circumstance in which they'd just been discovered.

"Brienne. You are just in time for your shift. Your timing is excellent, Clegane is no doubt very hungry."

Hungry indeed. If she'd not happened upon them when she did, he'd have devoured her.

Sansa flashed an appreciative smile at her shield while slowly creating distance between herself and Sandor. She was careful not to move too quickly so as not to appear even guiltier than they certainly already looked to the flabbergasted woman who had burst in upon them only moments ago.

Brienne stared at her incredulously, confusion writ across her deeply furrowed brow as she studied Sansa in a contemplative silence, by all appearances trying to work out what in the seven hells had been going on between her beloved Lady Stark and the Hound.

Sansa continued, gesturing casually in his direction, "I was just having Clegane inspect my chambers before I retire for the night. Though Lord Manderly _is_ our bannerman, Lord Bolton was as well."

She lifted a brow to further illustrate the subtle point she wished to make, but then allowed a gentle laugh to ease the tension when she saw that Brienne's expression remained unchanged.

"Brienne. You look upset, what is the matter?" She drew a step closer to her and placed a hand on the taller woman's arm, her features adopting an expression of concern. "Is everything all right?"

Sansa knew that her powers of manipulation were masterful, and all garnered from the unwelcome lessons given her by both Cersei and Petyr Baelish, and while it would never have been her choice to employ these deceptions upon Brienne, she felt at present as if her hands were tied. Her tone shifted to one of suspicion as she continued.

"Has something happened with Lord Jaime?"

A master indeed, Sansa deftly redirected the attention exactly where she knew that it would be least wanted. Brienne grew flustered and hastened to absolve her favorite.

"No, my lady! Lord Jaime has done nothing, I was only—" she paused and glanced warily at Sandor, "I was only concerned when I arrived and did not see _him_ at his post, though I heard _you_ in the chamber. I thought he had left his watch."

Sandor growled and took a step closer to Brienne, "I've been a sworn shield a bloody bit longer than you have, woman, I don't need help from an overgrown—"

Sansa raised a hand, "Enough. She was right to be concerned. Brienne, I am very grateful that I am so well protected." She flashed another reassuring smile.

Brienne turned aside from glaring at Sandor to assess Sansa's appearance meticulously, focusing specifically on...

 _My hair,_ Sansa thought, aghast. She knew how wild it must look after his hands had passionately roamed through it, tugging at it gently in his efforts to expose more of her skin to his searching lips.

She laughed sheepishly, "I have not seen the looking glass since I was out of doors, I must look like a wildling after all of that wind if I were to judge by the look on your face, Brienne." She moved the few steps toward her dressing table to peer into it and smoothed her locks with a pretty, self-conscious blush, "I'm sorry you weren't here earlier to tell me how ridiculous I look."

Brienne was appalled, her face openly displaying her chagrin at having so thoroughly misunderstood the situation at hand.

"No, my lady! I would never have meant—that is, I had forgotten you were outside. Forgive me." She looked reproachfully at Sandor, "Clegane…apologies I was only trying to ensure that Lady Stark was safe."

"Thank you, Brienne, but there is nothing to forgive, I am very grateful to have such an attentive shield."

Turning her gaze upon Sandor for the first time since she'd been pressed against the wall with him between her legs, wanton and desirous, Sansa addressed him brusquely.

"You may go now."

He allowed his gaze to linger for a long moment on her and she saw his mouth twitch. The raw, carnal tension between them was palpable and Sansa began to fear that all of her efforts to convince Brienne of their innocence had been for naught. Sandor had wanted more from her, much more, and she had not had the wherewithal to stop him from taking it—nor even the desire. To the contrary, she'd encouraged it. She'd wanted him with a desperation that was unfamiliar to her, and her pulse quickened in reflection of what she might have done had they not been interrupted.

He clenched a fist, an almost indiscernible acknowledgement that he was likely entertaining similar thoughts as her own. Then with a curt nod Sandor finally stepped around Brienne and disappeared through the doorway, his heavy footsteps resounding through the empty hall behind him.

Brienne watched him retreating over her shoulder and the moment he was out of earshot, she turned upon Sansa with a lowered voice.

"My lady, forgive me, but I—"

"I already told you, there is nothing to forgive, Brienne."

The stubborn woman drew in a sharp breath, opening her mouth to continue her protest, but Sansa cut her off once more, pretending not to notice.

"I'm glad you've come now, today was exhausting and I've never been more ready for sleep. This bed looks so much more inviting than my cot, don't you think?" She laughed softly, "Gods, I am glad to be in a castle again. And I won't be needing any help tonight, if the handmaiden comes along just send her away." Sighing contentedly, she tilted her head as she looked up at Brienne innocently, "Is there anything else, then?"

She saw Brienne's jaw clench, but the woman shook her head in resignation.

"No…my lady. I bid you good night." She stared at Sansa in a conflicted silence for one final moment before turning abruptly and heading to her post, drawing the heavy door closed behind her.

Sansa let out the breath she'd been holding and closed her eyes.

Her pulse was still racing from the fire he'd ignited in her, followed by the adrenaline rush of being nearly caught in the act. It was the first moment she'd had to herself in which to process everything that had just occurred and now she settled a trembling hand over her stomach as she inhaled a long, slow draught, mentally reliving the few minutes of unbridled passion she'd experienced before Brienne's untimely interruption.

 _Gods._

The musk of his skin was the heady scent of nostalgia and it had whisked her back instantly into memories of him from her youth when he'd been the only soul in King's Landing who'd sought to protect her. Time had taught Sansa that the feelings which she'd once interpreted as hatred for herself had instead been a deep longing for what was unattainable, a bitterness borne of a forbidden desire which had raged inside of the Hound. He'd always loved her, hadn't he?

Her fingertips traced the pout of her lower lip, remembering his mouth as it tasted of sour wine and the years of suppressed passion. His kiss had been incomparable to any other. It was not the slimy, inexperienced crushing of Joffrey's wormy lips against hers, nor the minty throat-cleansing given her by Petyr to satisfy his unwelcomed perversions. Sandor had kissed her as if she'd been his sustenance, the very breath in his lungs and had left her wanting nothing more than to be in his arms until he'd sated every trace of her longing.

And his eyes—those penetrating gray eyes, shadowed to near black in the candlelight, had torn through her soul leaving her breathless and ravaged by desire. Desirous of his hands on her body and his lips against her own, but even beyond that she'd been desirous only of _him._ This, then, was the reason behind the strange reactions he'd effectuated in her, this was why her stomach had flipped and her gaze had dropped nearly every time she'd spoken to him since he'd come back into her life from the grave. She had _feelings_ —nameless and formless, perhaps, but nonetheless _intense_ feelings—for Sandor Clegane.

With a groan of resignation, Sansa buried her face in her hands. What had she gotten herself into?

 _The Hound…_ Sansa blushed as she began pulling at the laces of her bodice to undress herself, recalling the sensation of his firm grip on her thighs as he'd hoisted her against the wall and moved between her legs. She relived the thrill of his hands being everywhere on her, his lips upon her neck, his breath heating her skin. And with a deeper reddening of her cheeks, she remembered the hardness she'd felt straining against her which had told her just how ready he'd been to take her completely, as a man takes a woman—to finish what he'd never quite started all those years ago.

Sansa stepped out of her gown and hastily pulled off her boots and stockings before reaching for her sleeping shift with a trembling hand. She paused reflectively, absently fingering the soft cotton as she glanced down at her now bare breasts and stomach. A shock of pleasure coursed through her lower body, primed as it was for intimacy, and she bit her lip with a furtive glance toward the closed door. All was silent and still.

Slipping her fingers into her smallclothes, Sansa quickly pulled them down over her hips and let them fall to the floor, her shift now forgotten on the nightstand. Her bare feet sank deliciously into the rich sealskin rug as she crept toward her lamp and blew the chamber into darkness.

Beneath the heavy fur coverlet, Sansa's breath shuddered over her hardened nipples, its warmth reversing the effects of the cool sheets which had elicited a wave of gooseflesh on her skin when she'd slipped between them. Her heart pounded beneath heaving breasts, perfectly in sync with the throbbing between her legs as her core burned with unsatisfied need.

Reaching tentatively for herself as she had not done in a very long time, Sansa drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes, remembering everything he'd done to her and imagining everything he hadn't.

* * *

All she knew was the cold.

When Sansa looked down at herself, she was naked and as white as the bark of the weirwood which stood tall and stark before her, with its crown of red leaves adorning its branches like her own red hair which flowed freely down over her bare arms. She wrapped them tightly about herself now and shuffled down the familiar path to Winterfell's heart tree, trying in vain to ward off the chill which was spreading through her long limbs like the weirwood branches spread throughout the gray winter sky.

With each step she took nearer the tree, Sansa thought that the face carved into it was beginning to resemble someone she knew, until, as she drew close enough to touch its pale trunk, she saw with no great surprise that it was the face of Bran. She dropped to her knees before his carved visage and, though she was unclothed, she felt no shame and had no desire to cover herself except to spare her exposed flesh from the bitter, unrelenting chill which swept mercilessly through the godswood.

"Bran," she cried desperately, her voice cracking as she spoke. "Bran, I'm so cold! Tell me where to go!"

Bran's weirwood face was as impassive as the one he wore in life since becoming the three-eyed-raven. He fixed his hollowed eyes upon hers and opened his hollowed mouth to speak words which came, not from the mouth itself, but from the leaves, whispering in thousands of different voices all about her.

"Winter is coming, Sansa."

She stared at the tree with the face of her brother incredulously for a long moment before her shock was replaced by a swell of anger. She was freezing and alone, naked in the godswood and all he could offer her was their house words.

"Bran, please! I'm so cold," she begged. "Tell me where to go! Bran!"

She beat the unyielding, ivory trunk with her open palm, wishing she could shake the real boy out of the tree and draw him to his senses. But though she begged and pleaded with him, he only spoke the same words, words which coursed through her veins deeper with each repetition, until she felt as if her very life's blood would turn to ice.

"Winter is coming."

"Winter is coming."

"Winter is coming."

He couldn't say anything else. Bran. The tree. Whatever it was knew only the Stark's house words.

Stumbling to her feet, Sansa looked about her, knowing that she must keep moving or she would die. She glimpsed a narrow opening into the earth set beneath a gnarled, white root from which a soft glow emanated. It seemed to be just large enough that she could squeeze her body through it, and so she did.

Then in an instant she was standing alone in the crypts, the lighted torches casting eerie shadows around her, yet doing nothing to ward off the frigidity which permeated every corner of the vast underground chamber. Before her stood her father's statue, tall and somber as he had been in life, with a sword in his hand and a direwolf at his feet.

 _Lady,_ she thought affectionately and reached down at once to stroke the stone wolf, but the moment her fingers grazed across the carved layers of fur, a sheen of ice formed over it and the direwolf shattered into a thousand pieces.

Gasping, Sansa took a step back and looked up into her father's stony face. The head turned toward her with a sickening crunch as his mouth formed the words she now dreaded to hear.

"Winter is coming."

 _No!_

Sansa whirled around to face the statue of her aunt Lyanna, fear now clutching at her heart as she saw that the limestone head had already turned in her direction, and the mouth had already fallen open.

"Winter is coming."

Her uncle and grandfather joined their gravelly voices to the others until the clamor of dead Starks repeating their house words was near deafening. Rising from the depths of the crypt and reverberating throughout the dark, oppressive chamber, hundreds of statues chanted the ominous warning.

"Winter is coming."

Collapsing both from terror and the debilitating cold, Sansa felt as if she could scarcely move anymore. Her limbs grown numb and her heart grown heavy, she lay motionless awaiting her fate.

First one crow, and then another circled above her head until there were hundreds—thousands—filling the crypts with dark wings and dark words. They screamed in unison.

"Winter is coming!"

Sansa wept and the tears turned to ice upon her cheeks. She would die here, she knew. Winter had come and it would leave her in the crypts to lie beside her kin for eternity.

Sprawled in preparation for an eternal slumber, Sansa suddenly felt a gentle nuzzling against her outstretched palm. Warm breath stirred the little hairs along her forearm, continuing up toward her shoulder, then her neck, until finally it hovered just above her face, thawing the ice which had sealed her eyelids shut. She slowly lifted them, longing to discover the source of this welcome respite from the bitter cold.

It was a dog. He sniffed at her hair and looked down at her, and when his gray eyes met hers, he spoke to her without truly speaking.

"We have to go, Sansa."

She blinked and stared back into those deep, penetrating eyes—eyes that belonged to someone whom she would trust with her life. She would _not_ die there in the crypts; she did not belong there yet. She would go with him. She would live.

"We have to go, Sansa."

" _Sansa!_ "

She gasped loudly and sat bolt upright, the furs falling away from her as she did, and the first thing Sansa knew was the cold.

It was _so_ cold!

Snatching the coverlet up around her to protect her bare breasts and arms from it, she almost screamed when awareness finally settled upon her and she realized that _he_ was in her room—that _his_ had been the hand which had furiously shaken her from her sleep.

"Sansa, we have to go. _Now!"_

His tone was insistent, almost frantic. In the dim lighting which reached her chambers from the hall, Sansa could see that Brienne was also in her room, protesting Sandor's presence, spouting apologies to Sansa, but Sandor ignored her and continued urging Sansa that they must leave at once.

It was all just dissonance—empty, meaningless noise that faded into the darkness around her until all she could hear was her own labored breathing, each exhale billowing into a cloud of blue haze before her eyes. She felt as if she was somehow not _in_ time, but observing it from afar, silently watching the chaos of the moment unfold before her eyes.

Then fear gripped Sansa, descending upon her like a dark, icy shroud wrapping around her heart and threatening to smother all life from her. And all at once she understood.

She clutched Sandor's arm, locking her gaze with his as her whole body shook with the sudden realization of what she knew _,_ inexplicably, to be true.

" _They're_ here?"

Relief registered on his countenance upon seeing that she finally understood.

"Aye. And we're leaving _now_ ," He quickly withdrew from her, shoving her dress in her lap as he did. "Be quick."

Edging toward the door with his sword drawn, Sandor stepped partway into the hall to keep watch while Sansa hastened into her clothing and boots, moving with a sense of urgency she'd never felt before.

"Go find the others!" He told Brienne stiffly, jerking his head in the direction of the main hall. "The Kingslayer, Bronn. Everyone. Tell them the dead have come."

Brienne's eyes grew wide and darted to Sansa for approval.

Snatching her heavy cloak up and throwing it over her shoulders, Sansa nodded at her shield, her whole body trembling.

"Go, we have to leave the castle before they reach us!"

When Brienne hesitated, Sansa quickly closed the distance between them and gripped the woman by both arms.

" _Go!_ I have Sandor. We need to warn as many others as we can! _"_

Brienne finally nodded and took a step back to draw her Valyrian steel sword, the sound of the metal as it exited the sheath sending a chill down Sansa's spine. The ripples of crimson in the fine blade caught the light in such a way that it appeared to be glowing, as if it had just emerged red-hot from the forge. Sansa felt humbled in that instant, knowing that such a fine warrior would be willing to die defending her if need be. Her throat constricted painfully.

"Be careful, Brienne," she whispered, trying to force a smile and failing.

Her friend looked down at her solemnly, ever loyal to the oath she'd given to follow and obey Sansa, always.

"I will, my lady."

Sandor stopped her at the door, one hand grasping her shoulder as he kept his eyes on the dimly lit hall.

"Make for the boats." He looked her in the eyes briefly, "Bastards don't like water."

She nodded grimly and took off down the hall.

Sansa joined Sandor at the doorway and reached for him instinctively. She told herself that it was out of desperation to feel the warmth of another body as the surreal cold penetrated through layers of clothing, but as she rested her hand on his forearm and searched his face, their tryst from the night before flashed through her mind's eye in vivid detail, reminding her why she yet craved him.

If his thoughts were in the same vein, he hid it well. Sandor's countenance was grave as he reached into his cloak and handed her a knife. Crudely designed, and with a blade as black as the night, the weapon looked especially foreign once placed upon her small, ivory palm.

"You know what this is?"

Sansa swallowed hard as she stared at the obsidian dagger and nodded her head shakily.

"Yes, b-but I—"

"Aye, you've never used a dagger. Doesn't matter, you'll do what you have to. This will stop them." He studied her for a moment and chuckled ironically, "As your sister once told me, just stick 'em with the pointy end."

Sansa looked up at him and tried to smile, but her face refused to do anything. It was as if all other thoughts and emotions had been replaced by a cold emptiness. She knew what it was, knew it as certain as she knew her own name.

She was terrified.

He looked down at her for a moment, not only at her eyes but allowing his gaze to trail slowly over every inch of her face so that for a brief instant Sansa thought that he would kiss her again.

"You're afraid," he rasped huskily, reaching down and taking her trembling hand in his.

Sansa nodded and looked down at the strange contrast their hands made against one another, unable to formulate a response.

"Well that makes two of us." He squeezed her hand gently in solidarity, "Come."

Without another wasted moment, they hurried together down the passageway.

Winter had descended upon the entire castle. Just as in her dream, the air about them was filled with an eerie, frigid silence that made Sansa's skin crawl with dread. They could hear nothing except the echo of their own footsteps and the clatter of Sandor's weaponry. Sansa wondered where the rest of the castle's inhabitants were.

"Sandor," she asked under her breath as they hurried down a new corridor after leaving the first, "why is there no one else? Is it really so late?"

He paused to listen to the silence as he glanced warily around the next bend.

"The hour of the wolf," he muttered, and they continued moving quickly through the deserted halls.

 _The darkest hour of the night_. Sansa swallowed her fear at what that night would bring as she struggled to keep up with his huge paces, wondering whether Brienne would find anyone else still alive and if they would make it safely onto the boats. Would any of them see the dawn?

He stayed her thoughts with a raise of his hand, stopping them abruptly mid-step. Shuffling, in the distance, and a strange clinking of metal on metal reached Sansa's ears. The sounds were nearly as loud as the pounding of her own heart and she clenched her eyes tightly, bracing herself for the onslaught she knew would be forthcoming.

A lone, hunched figure appeared at the end of the corridor, his heavy chain rattling around his aged neck. Sansa gasped loudly in her immense relief and felt as if her knees might give out beneath her. It was only the maester of New Castle.

"Maester Weston?" she called in a loud whisper, and the old man looked up quickly, squinting past the light of the candle that he carried in his outstretched arm.

"Why, lady Stark, is that you?" He drew back in surprise, "My good lady, I must apologize for this dreadful cold, I was just looking for the steward to find out who on earth is responsible for this negligence, and the timing couldn't be poorer when our own liege Lady is our guest, I cannot imagine what could have—"

"Maester, listen to me," Sansa breathed as they reached him, and she grasped his free hand in both of hers. "The dead have arrived. We're all in danger, we must warn the others."

The old maester gaped at her as comprehension gradually settled upon him.

"The—the dead? My lady, surely you don't mean—"

"Yes, Maester, the Others bring the cold with them," she hurriedly explained, "Jon warned me how it would be. _Please_ , we have little time. How does White Harbor warn its people of danger?"

The maester looked incredulously from Sansa to her shield, recognizing at once the sincerity in their panicked expressions.

"There is a bell," he replied firmly, a new determination in his lowered voice, "it is in the North tower."

"Can you reach it?"

He nodded bravely, looking more alarmed than he had moments ago, but with the expression of steadfast loyalty and servitude upon his countenance which was so frequently displayed by those of his highly respected order.

Sansa squeezed his wizened hand gently, "Go then, quickly. Gods go with you."

Maester Weston looked to Sandor briefly, as if ensuring that Sansa would be safe in his care, before dipping his head in a quick bow and hastening back the way he had come. Within a few seconds, his figure had disappeared down a smaller corridor.

Sansa and her shield hurried on through the castle, the same surreal and foreboding silence preceding them, until finally they reached the doorway which led out upon the main courtyard.

Here they froze and looked at one another anxiously as the first sounds of conflict reached their ears. The shouting of both men and women, clashing of steel weapons brandished against one another, and a monstrous shriek passed through the heavy oaken doors before them.

Sansa gripped Sandor's arm more tightly, her blood running cold in her veins.

"By the Gods…" she uttered, her face ashen.

"We'll find another way out," he rasped, pulling her away from the doorway.

"Wait!" she gasped, pausing and angling her ear toward the door, "it's Brienne!" she exclaimed after a moment, "Brienne's out there, you have to help her!"

He gripped her roughly by both arms and looked gravely down into her eyes, "Listen to me, little bird. There's no helping anyone with them, I'm getting you out of here now before—"

His sentence was cut short by the doors suddenly bursting open, and he was only just able to pull Sansa aside in time to prevent her being knocked over by them.

Bronn barreled over the threshold, followed quickly by Jaime, a few other faces which Sansa didn't recognize, and finally Brienne, panting and blood-stained, her flaxen hair plastered to her brow.

"My lady!" Brienne gasped, slamming the door closed behind her while the men quickly barred it. "Run!"

Sansa blanched, someone shouted, and Sandor nearly pulled her off her feet as they began to flee for their lives. She struggled desperately to keep up with the others in her heavy woolen dress as the entire party tore through the castle in search of escape.

"We've got to—get to—the water," she heard someone gasp beside her.

Something flashed through her mind's eye then, as clear and bold as a vision, despite the fact that she was exerting every ounce of strength just to keep pace with Sandor. She saw herself dancing with him again, beside the balcony, and as he pulled her in from a spin, she glimpsed in her periphery a little gate leading off to one side. It opened to a small pathway and a crude set of steps, winding down the steep slope on its way to the sea.

"Veranda," she gasped breathlessly, but her weakened voice was swallowed up in the mayhem of their escape and none seemed to hear. In desperation, she gathered enough strength to punch Sandor's arm with her free hand.

"The—harbor," she panted, trying to look up at him and stumbling.

He caught her before she fell and the brief instant in which she had his eyes trained on her, she coughed out again.

"The veranda—escape."

He didn't have to respond; she knew by the expression in his eyes that he understood. Sandor shouted directions to the others, and they altered their course to head for the main hall.

The commotion of their desperate retreat was instantly overshadowed by a loud crash and splintering of wood in the distance as the doorway leading from the courtyard was overtaken. The sounds which echoed throughout the vast, empty corridors behind them seemed to have crawled directly out of Sansa's worst night terrors.

The dead were inside the castle.

She inhaled a sharp breath, high-pitched and frantic, desperately willing her legs to move faster. She was not ready to die here.

Just as they burst through the doors of the main hall, a new sound reverberated throughout the walls, rising from the very stones beneath their feet to the rafters high above their heads.

The bell rang.

 _Gods be good_ , Sansa found herself thinking, overwhelmed with gratitude for the man who'd selflessly served his people when called upon, without even a second thought for his own safety.

Sprinting as they were through the darkened hall, Sansa nearly missed the dim glow emanating from a nearby alcove. If the glow had not moved, her gaze would have passed right over it without even noticing the two figures illuminated behind it.

"Stop, stop," she panted, wrenching her arm from Sandor's grasp. She knew the smaller figure well, had spent a good deal of time in his company on the journey south.

"Ned?" she called, scrambling toward him while ignoring Sandor's protests behind her. "Oh Ned, thank the gods. Quick, we have to go!"

Sansa clutched Ned Umber's hand tightly and began dragging him behind her, while the manservant who had accompanied Ned followed close behind them.

"We were—c-cold," the boy gasped, "we couldn't find anyone."

Brienne ushered them through the doorway to the covered terrace with Sandor bringing up the rear, barking at the group to quicken their pace

"What's happening?" Ned asked, fear quivering his childish voice as he struggled to keep up.

"The dead have come," Sansa panted, glancing toward the little path she had remembered and finding that Bronn and the others had already started down it. Jaime was waiting at the gate, shouting and gesturing frantically for them to hurry.

Another crash split the night air over the sound of the tolling bell and Sansa whipped her head around, her eyes wide with alarm. The clamor which rose to her ears was like thousands of scrambling beasts running wild, shrieking and growling, brandishing weapons of every nature. And they were coming for her.

Everything that happened next was sluggish and disjointed. Sandor shoved her toward the gate and wheeled around with his sword high. Ned Umber was tugging her by the arm and urging her to follow him as his manservant careened down the path toward the harbor, heedless of his master. Steel clashed loudly behind her, followed by a fearsome shout from Brienne and Sansa could not resist the urge to look back.

Nothing in her young life could have prepared her for the moment in which she first witnessed the sight of the living dead. Though she'd once looked upon the severed heads of her own father and septa, dipped in tar to slow the rot, it was nothing to the sight of Brienne and Sandor slashing through ragged clothing and bones, engaged in combat with decaying bodies that screamed and gnashed and flailed.

Sansa watched in despair as her shields cut through the wights one at a time, knowing that they would soon be overwhelmed. She knew that they intended to die fighting so that she might escape, and the sinking feeling that arose from the pit of her stomach was almost unbearable. She would not leave them. She could not lose them.

 _We need fire._

Sansa frantically scanned her surroundings, her attention drawn at once to the large, ornate lanterns set upon stone columns at regular intervals around the terrace, normally used to illuminate the outdoor sanctuary on pleasant evenings. None were still burning.

Jaime and Bronn were shouting at her from the steps below, Ned Umber had moved between herself and the onslaught of the dead, and Sansa suddenly remembered the glow which had illuminated his boyish face.

 _Their lantern._

Whirling around, she immediately spotted the small bedroom lantern that the manservant had dropped before his untimely retreat. Its window was cracked, but it had landed upright and she saw with relief that the flame still burned inside. Snatching it up, Sansa spun back around in time to see Sandor throwing a corpse over the balcony. He caught her gaze and glared at her.

"Get the fuck out of here!" he bellowed while blocking another blow aimed at his head.

She shook her head, "Burn them!"

Holding up the flame so that he could see, Sansa pointed at the large clay urn beside him which held the oil beneath the wick and plate. Understanding dawned on him. He slashed at another wight and shifted to the side, grabbing hold of the urn and shattering it across the stones.

Oil splattered everywhere and Sandor continued fighting while backing toward the next. He knocked it over a few feet from the first.

"Go!" he shouted at Brienne, who saw what he was doing and threw down the urn nearest her before dashing toward Sansa. Brienne pushed Ned onto the pathway, snatched the lantern from her mistress and turned to face the dead once more.

"Clegane!"

Sandor cut through an enemy and stole the narrow opening he had for retreat, shoving Sansa ahead of him through the gate. She heard another crash as she hastened down the steps behind Ned, and then felt an immense surge of heat as flames overtook the balcony, engulfing the dead who shrieked and flailed wildly as they burned.

The fire might buy them some time, but it would only be seconds. Sansa half ran and half skidded down the steep slope in the semi-darkness, illuminated only by the now distant flames and the light of the moon as it reflected off of the sea. She was grateful for the rough, wooden railing which had been erected beside the path and acted as a barrier between the traveler and a fateful tumble down the cliff; it served its purpose more than once as she desperately scrambled down the steps toward the harbor.

The others had already reached the pebbled beach of New Castle's private cove, surrounded on three sides by the castle walls which jutted out some ways into the sea. She saw men frantically dragging a small pleasure barge toward the water as she completed her descent, taking the steps two at a time, before finally leaping to the bottom to land just beside Ned.

They had just begun sprinting toward the boat when the large canvas sunshade on its deck caved in unexpectedly with a loud crash, wresting a startled scream from Sansa's throat. Something had fallen directly onto the barge, and that something began crawling toward the men who were still half-shoving, half-carrying the boat into the water. They shouted curses and Bronn slashed at the crippled wight, decapitating it immediately, just as another body hit the beach behind him.

"Get to the boat!" Sandor bellowed in her ear as more of the dead began falling all around them. He gave her a shove toward it before swinging his sword at a creature that was dragging its broken body toward them.

Sansa glanced up at the cliff as she began to run, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the contrast of the flames which still burned on the veranda high above them. All at once she saw that the darkness below it was writhing and moving, the side of the cliff rippling like dark waves upon the sea at night. She froze in terror as she realized what it meant. Her stomach lurched violently and all of the hairs on her body stood on end.

They were everywhere. The dead covered the face of the cliff; crawling, climbing, and falling toward them. She took a step backward, ready to turn and run toward the sea when her boot collided with something solid and she fell headlong onto the coarse sand.

The creature that she'd tripped over quickly sank its claws into her dress and the flesh beneath it as it dragged itself atop her. It gripped her arm with an oppressive strength and crawled up her body until its rotted face was hanging just above her own. The wight had been an elderly woman with brittle white hair sticking out of her rotting skull in patches, missing half of her jaw and most of the skin from one cheek so that the bone showed through. Sansa shrieked in terror and tried to protect her face as the wight gnashed its teeth and screeched back at her in otherworldly tones.

Before she knew what was happening, the monster was suddenly yanked off of her and hurled against a rock where its bones shattered on impact. Sandor reached down, grabbed her by the arm and threw her over his shoulder. He charged toward the boat, which was now halfway in the water, with some of the men already climbing onto it, while others still engaged with the dead.

Sansa's body tumbled roughly onto the deck as Sandor threw her onto it before turning around to dispatch another enemy. As she lifted herself up, she caught a glimpse just beyond Sandor of a boy fighting valiantly against a wight who had overtaken his manservant and was repeatedly stabbing the now lifeless young man lying beside him.

"Ned!" she shrieked as Sandor waded into the sea, pushing the boat ahead of him.

"No, no! We can't leave him! Ned!"

Everything was happening as if in a dream and Sansa felt her mind clouding. Jaime was dragging Brienne into the water toward them and Bronn had just jumped onto the barge beside her. Sandor was pulling himself up onto the boat and out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed a man wildly paddling an oar to propel them further from shore. But Ned was not with them.

Sansa pulled the obsidian dagger from her bodice and threw herself over the side of the boat.

Like thousands of needles piercing her skin simultaneously, the icy water engulfed her completely and instantly knocked the breath from her lungs. She kicked at the sloping earth beneath the sea but found that she couldn't feel her limbs at all. The dagger slipped from her fingers as she struggled for the surface and the last thing Sansa knew was the crushing sensation of her clothing constricting painfully around her chest and throat. Then the darkness closed in.

* * *

-Sandor-

He stepped off the boat in the first light of dawn with Sansa in his arms, and one objective on his mind: to find the nearest surviving maester.

As the survivors hastened toward the castle, they had to pick their way around strange piles of twisted flesh and bone and the occasional fresh corpse—a victim of the attack which had plagued the city only hours before.

As dawn had approached, they'd discovered a shoreline of death—true death. The wights were there, but the blue light had disappeared from their eyes, and without the unnatural reanimation of their bodies, their rotting corpses had collapsed where they stood. He couldn't know for certain what it meant but judging by what Sandor had seen beyond the wall, the wights only fell when the White Walker who'd raised them had been defeated. He hoped this meant that the battle for Winterfell had not only happened but had been successful in defeating the Night King and he'd shared these thoughts with the others when their eyes had first beheld the silent shoreline in the gray, predawn light. Gray for Stark, and the victory which he hoped they'd captured.

He looked down at the one he held now, her face whiter than he'd ever seen it before, in striking contrast with the deep red of her hair. She looked just like the tree which her ancestors had worshipped, and he found himself silently beseeching her gods to save her now.

After he'd pulled her from the sea, soaked to the bone and unconscious, Brienne had quickly stripped the wet clothes from her body and squeezed the water from her hair. They'd done their best to warm her with what they had to offer, only bits of their own damp clothing and their combined body heat as the lone survivors gathered as close as possible to one another while they drifted away from death's shore. But they had been on a boat in the midst of the harbor, and in the midst of winter. Many hadn't been prepared with adequate clothing in the first place, and with most of them at least partially damp from the initial struggle to put to sea, the entire group had struggled to stay warm.

But Sansa had been hit the worst. Her untimely plunge into the icy water of the harbor was the worst possible thing that she could have done, and there'd been little that they could do to help her. She'd shivered violently for a long time, but it was when the shivering had slowed that Sandor had become truly concerned for her. They'd fought to keep her awake as her pupils dilated and her eyes rolled back into her skull, but they'd been fighting a losing battle. She needed warmth—a consistent source of warmth—and damp, frozen bodies exposed to the brutal elements were only buying time for her. They had given up in trying to keep her eyes open and had focused instead on ensuring that she still drew breath. Sandor still looked down to check every few moments.

He ignored the burning in his arms which protested the burden he was carrying, as he ignored the clenching of his heart at the thought of losing her. Losing the people he cared for was what he did best. It was his curse—one which had always been far more painful than the scars that he wore on his face.

He'd finally reached the castle, its gates torn open from the onslaught, and Sandor continued through into the courtyard as the others spoke to survivors and surveyed the damage, most still in a state of shock and disbelief. Brienne quickly disappeared to seek out the maester as soon as they entered the building.

"I need a fire," Sandor barked out at the first person he came across, a young maid who was carrying a small basin of water and several cloths through the hall.

She looked up at him with a haunted expression, like a ghost of a woman who had seen death's many faces and should not have lived to tell the tale. But she nodded vacantly—as if she was only functioning by sheer force of will alone—and bid him follow her.

They soon reached a spacious and comfortable sitting room, in which a large fire roared in the hearth while a few bundled figures sat dazedly around it. Some just stared mindlessly into the flames, wrapped in cloaks or furs, while others tended to wounds or sipped broth. Sandor ignored these, laying his burden as near the fire as he dared, grateful for the lush rug of bearskin which was spread before it.

"Give it to me," he gestured demandingly toward the nearest body wrapped in a fur. The woman who was beneath it gawked at him for a long moment, eyes wide and reproachful, but she did not resist and hastily pulled the heavy fur coverlet off her shoulders before handing it to him.

He knelt beside the still cold and lifeless Sansa and unwrapped the damp cloak from her body, leaving her only in the man's tunic they'd dressed her with, which barely extended mid-thigh. Her long, shapely legs were as white as milk, but he covered them quickly with the fur and then stood to remove his own leathers and clothing until he was down to his breeches.

The woman whose fur he'd stolen gasped upon the removal of his tunic, her gentle breeding likely unfamiliar with being in the presence of a semi-naked man. But Sandor cared only about saving Sansa's life and he knew that it was imperative that he get warmth back into her body.

"Go find the maester, woman," he barked as he lifted the fur coverlet and slipped beneath it until his body was flush with Sansa's. He wrapped one large arm around her torso and lay with his chest against her back and her head nestled just beneath his chin. He ensured that every bit of his skin which could make contact with hers, did.

"Come back, little bird," he whispered hoarsely as he gently stroked her cold arm, willing his warmth into her. "The dead are gone. We're safe now."

He placed his fingers against her neck to check that the blood still flowed through her veins, noting that it was almost cool to his touch. The woman had left in search of the maester and the other people in the room distanced themselves from the strange scene unfolding before them, apparently at a loss for what to think of a huge, scarred warrior stripping down and desperately trying to bring his mistress back to life.

"This isn't how you're going to go," Sandor rasped under his breath. "You're a Stark of Winterfell, you've got the fight in you, I've seen it. Fight now. Stay here with the living."

 _Stay here with me._

He continued caressing her gently and speaking to her in hoarse whispers until the maester finally arrived. The same hands which Sansa had clasped in supplication only a few short hours ago now stroked her cool brow.

"She is in shock," Maester Weston mumbled, after holding his fingers against her wrist to check her pulse. He glanced at her hair which was matted and tangled, "She was in the water, was she?"

"Aye," Sandor responded quietly. "Foolish woman tried to save the Umber boy."

The old man smiled sadly as he stroked her brow. "I found the boy's corpse myself. Too young." He shook his head. "As is she."

Sandor glanced up quickly at the tone of despair he recognized in the maester's voice, unwilling to believe that Sansa was beyond hope.

The old man caught his concern, "That isn't to say she cannot yet come through," he clarified, nodding at Sandor. "You've acted wisely to use the heat of your own body to warm her and you'll forgive me if I ask you to remain where you are. Yours is the largest body here and will offer her the most heat. Seeing as you're already there, you may as well stay."

He lifted each of her eyelids and checked her pupils, passing his hand once more across her brow.

"For now, I've done all I can for Lady Stark. We will keep the fire burning hot. If her body takes to the warmth soon, she may come through unscathed." He stood and looked down into Sandor's eyes, "All that is left to do is wait."

He nodded kindly and stepped aside to tend to the others in the room.

 _Wait_. Hadn't he already spent years waiting for Sansa? He had waited to have her in his arms like this for nearly as long as he'd known her.

"Little bird…," he murmured into her tousled hair, as he covered her small, cold hand with his own beneath the fur. Closing his eyes, he laid his head gently beside hers.

He would never stop waiting for her.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:**

 **Readers, thank you a million times for your patience! I've loved reading every single review I've gotten, and I loved writing this chapter. It was so satisfying to write and then erase and edit and erase until I felt that I'd gotten the moments just right. It's the longest so far and (hopefully) the best. Don't forget to let me know what you think! I wanted to get it out tonight and just finished the third edit, so hopefully I haven't missed anything, but I wouldn't be surprised if I go back in tomorrow when I have more time and change more :P**

* * *

Chapter 11

 _ **Understanding**_

-Sansa-

Sansa's return to consciousness came on her slowly, waves of awareness breaking and ebbing in her mind like a becalmed sea gently embracing the shore. It was the collapse of a log in the hearth that startled her over the final threshold of cognizance, her bleary eyes following the ensuing spray of embers in their ascension of the rough stone chimney. She blinked against the bright shaft of midday sun which streamed unbroken between the panels of brocade drapery, brow furrowed as she struggled to recall how she had come to be here, lying alone before a fire in this silent, unfamiliar room.

The furs which enveloped her were tucked up to her chin and she seemed to be lying unnecessarily close to the flames. Combined, these factors left her feeling suffocated—trapped, as if in a stifling cocoon. It was passingly odd, she thought, that despite facing the fire, the greatest source of heat was radiating from directly behind her, but in her desperation for relief from the oppressive warmth, she did not pursue the reason behind this contradiction.

Sansa uncovered her upper body in one swift movement, tossing the heavy furs aside and lifting her head and shoulders away from the rug to try and take in more of her surroundings. The shock of the cooler air as it collided with the sheen of sweat upon her skin was nothing to the jolt of terror that snaked through her abdomen suddenly and dreadfully when her eyes settled upon her own body. Across her midsection a large arm was draped, the squared, masculine knuckles lightly brushing the ends of the fur on the bearskin rug, casually dangling before her bellybutton as if they had always been there—as if they belonged there.

It was never a question in her mind as to whom the arm belonged; she knew him inherently. She was suddenly hyperaware of his distinctive scent in her nostrils and the sound of steady, rhythmic breaths arising from deep within his chest as he slept behind her. A strange, unrecognizable tunic was the only layer of separation between the raw heat of his skin and her own bare flesh, now covered with thousands of little raised bumps as her every hair stood on end in protest. Whether they protested the cold or the violation, there they stood all the same; rigid, alert.

A familiar panic began settling into her core, infusing her lungs with a desperate need for air as quickly as she could inhale it. She was drowning, spiraling—mind fogging with the hurt and anger, confusion and chaos. Sansa sucked in shallow breaths in rapid succession, squeezing her eyelids together as if the action itself could bring to her mind any memory which might explain the indecent and incriminating circumstance to which she had just awakened.

 _Oh, dear gods_ , _what has he done?_

The helplessness and anguish of believing she'd been so wronged by someone whom she'd begun to trust, someone whom she may have even cared for hit Sansa in her gut, rolling through her stomach in a sickening wave of dread. Yet, almost naively, she clung to some hope that perhaps these fears were unfounded, perhaps these circumstances did not prove him to be the monster she'd once feared him to be. Rolling over cautiously, she searched for the explanation which might justify him in her eyes, the proof which would convince her that this was not truly what it appeared to be.

She glimpsed first his beard, framing the mouth that was slightly opened in sleep and the lips she'd kissed so willingly only—last night, was it? Her gaze continued down where the hairs on his neck became the hairs on his chest. A soft gasp escaped her throat. He was so huge, so finely muscled— _and_ he was completely bare from the waist up. Her eyes traveled along Sandor's body lower and lower, until the trail of dark hair disappeared beneath his breeches. There he lay, his semi-naked body flush against hers, arm possessively draping her abdomen and laying claim to something that had never been given him. And he was beginning to awaken.

Sansa's breath hitched in her throat, trapping what might have become a sob while she sat up suddenly and jerked her body away from him. She clutched the furs to her chest and glared down at the man who had become the monster, her entire body trembling with rage and the soul-crushing pain of betrayal.

"Little bird," he mumbled groggily, squeezing his eyes together in one long blink before pushing himself up quickly onto one elbow. "You're awake…," he said, almost incredulously. He seemed very interested in her, his voice tinged with an innocence and concern which incensed Sansa, considering what she was now convinced he had done.

He reached for her, instinctively, and his large, sinewy chest flexed with the movement, drawing her eyes toward it briefly. This man who'd protected her, who'd said he'd never hurt her, was now shamelessly lying almost completely naked before her in a brutal reminder of what he'd taken from her with neither her knowledge, nor her consent. Sansa clenched her jaw and impulsively landed a blow across his cheek.

"How dare you?!"

Her voice was thick with emotion, irate and trembling, hand smarting from the blow. Sandor was quick, but had been caught off guard, only snatching her wrist up in his large hand after she'd struck him. He frowned at her with an expression of disbelief but ensnared as she now was in his iron grip, Sansa grew even more outraged.

"What in the seven hells were you thinking?" she hissed, her failed attempts to free her wrist from his grasp only adding to the sinking feeling of her own helplessness. Amidst her struggle and writhing, the furs shifted, revealing one long, white leg extending from beneath them. Sandor glanced down at her milky flesh, eyes lingering upon her shapely thigh for one long moment. She blanched in mortification, awkwardly reaching over with her free hand and struggling to cover herself before he finally released her. Angry tears sprang to her eyes.

"What did you do?" she half sobbed. Swiftly covering her exposed flesh, she clutched the furs around herself and inched further away from him.

Sandor reached across his body for his own discarded tunic with a scowl.

"Seven hells, woman. I just saved your bloody life." He pulled himself upright, shoving his arms unceremoniously through the openings. He glared at her, annoyance etched across his rugged features, rendering the burned side of his face almost frightening. "Right fine way to thank me," he grumbled, and jerked the tunic over his head in one swift motion.

"What? What are you talking about? Why have you—did we…?" Sansa blinked back the tears as she tried to speak over the painful lump in her throat, glancing around the empty room to ensure no one was nearby who could hear the implications in her words. She felt humiliated and shamed—a disgrace, her body merely a tool, a means to someone else's end. Littlefinger. Ramsay. Sandor. Some man's end. Except that it hadn't ended. It never ended, did it?

Sandor's laconic reply cut through her wretched thoughts. "For fuck's sake, I haven't raped you," he scowled, getting to his feet and snatching up the rest of his clothing.

A flicker of hope flashed through Sansa's being and she clutched at it desperately. Head raised sharply, her eyes sought his, beseeching him for the explanation that might lift the weight of dread from her heavy heart.

Shrugging impatiently into his jerkin, he continued, "You've been nearly dead for hours. Don't remember throwing yourself into the frozen sea so you could try and be a bloody hero?" He snatched up his weapons belt and strapped it around his waist, glaring at her through the loose hair that hung around his face, aggravation roughing his voice even more than his scars already did.

Sansa stared back at him incredulously, shocked and unblinking. Relief, satiating and never before so welcomed to her anguished mind, flooded her being. His words were the alibi her soul had craved, clearing him of the circumstantial blame which had fallen upon him. She felt elation, gratefulness; then all at once, confusion. Brow wrinkling, Sansa's gaze fell to the dark fur of the rug as her mind struggled for recollection. There were bits and pieces of the night before, but it felt distant and strange; disjointed, like a dream.

"The army of the dead!" Sansa whispered with sudden realization, pressing her palm to her chest and looking up at him anxiously. "Gods, what happened?"

"Gone. Dead for good this time." Sandor extended a hand down to her with one eyebrow raised and an expression of poorly concealed impatience. "You're still whiter than milk, you need to rest, girl."

She could only stare at his outstretched hand. The army of the dead, gone? The threat which had loomed for years, prompting an upset to their lives and an exodus from their homes was truly gone? This was all too much to take in, especially on the heels of the emotional ordeal through which she'd just lived, and Sansa laid her forehead against her palm, squeezing her eyes shut against the sensation of lightheadedness which was washing over her.

"Come on," Sandor grunted, "I'll get you back to your chambers and get the maester." His fingers motioned impatiently.

She placed her hand in his hesitantly and allowed him to pull her to her feet, still clutching the blanket tightly around herself. Sandor bent, catching her up in his arms in one smooth, unexpected movement.

The maidenly gasp which escaped her lips upon being swept away so suddenly prompted a half-chuckle from Sandor, rumbling up from deep in his chest. Sansa colored, shyly wrapping her arms around his shoulders because she had no other choice and trying her best to avoid eye contact. His explanation of their night spent in each other's arms had left her with myriad new emotions replacing the ones which had consumed her only moments ago. Anger had become gratitude, hurt had become hope—what she'd thought was betrayal had proven to be…

"Love seeing you becoming the bloody maiden all over again with your modesty and pretty pink cheeks," he rasped mockingly as he strode toward the guest chambers. "Just like the old Sansa."

Leaning in close to her ear he continued in a lowered voice, eyes still trained ahead.

"Just going to act like you didn't sing me a pretty little song last night, is that it?"

He winked and Sansa gasped at his brazenness, though, in truth, she was surprised at herself for expecting anything else from this man.

"Don't mock me," she pouted, looking away sullenly. She was vaguely aware—and thus further annoyed with herself—that this made her sound very much indeed like the old Sansa.

They'd reached the great, oaken door to her chamber and he used his back to open it as he carried her through with a sly grin.

"Wasn't mocking you," he said as he gently settled her on the large featherbed, pausing before withdrawing his arms from around her. "Teasing, mayhaps." He gazed boldly into her upturned face, lowering his voice into a husky whisper, "We did leave some things unfinished last night…"

Sansa shuddered out an uncertain breath, gazing straight ahead at his tunic and remembering what she'd seen beneath it. He'd lain for hours with her like that, willing life back into her body with his strong arm wrapped around her, his entire body, warm and virile, lying flush with her own. How differently she felt about it now, when seen through the perspective of Sandor forgoing all sense of propriety in order to save her life, instead of believing that he had used her wrongly. Sansa's heart pounded in her ears and she was employing every ounce of willpower to avoid biting on her lower lip expectantly.

Slowly and deliberately, Sandor drew his arm out from behind her, dragging his palm across her shoulders until he held her chin within his grasp. His thumb passed lightly along her jaw for half a second before he tilted it slightly, forcing her gaze to meet his. Sansa stayed the ragged breath that was trapped within her chest, searching his eyes longingly and awaiting the kiss which she was certain would follow.

"Probably best they stay unfinished, I don't fancy getting slapped again." He released his grip on her chin and straightened, "You're stronger than you look, little bird."

The roguish grin that spread across his face beneath the full beard was smug and full of good humor as he theatrically placed his fingertips against the cheek she'd struck, feigning a pout which looked as ridiculous as could be expected upon the countenance of a man like Sandor Clegane.

Sansa could only stare at him in astonishment, mouth agape.

He raised a brow impishly and backed toward the door, a look of pure satisfaction on his face.

"Rest. I'll find the maester."

And just like that, she was alone, feeling more foolish and confused than ever she'd felt before.

* * *

Maester Weston brought with him vials of various herbs and remedies and had a large bowl of broth sent up from the kitchens which Sansa had already nearly emptied in her famished state. He fussed over her while she sipped, and he and Brienne stood around the bed filling her in on what had occurred during the time that she'd been unconscious, while Sandor stood nearby.

"The loss isn't nearly as bad as we initially thought it might have been, my lady," Brienne reported. "I've just seen Maester Fennec who has conducted a rough estimate of the loss of life throughout our camp. He estimates that less than one-tenth of our people were killed in the night. Some may yet pass as there are many wounded, but it is better than we feared, my lady."

"Not for those who died—or for those who lost someone they held dear," Sansa replied wistfully as the maester checked her pulse for the third time. "We must arrange for the funeral. Have Maester Fennec see me at once about it."

Brienne nodded, "Of course, my lady. There are—many other bodies as well."

Sansa raised a brow, "The wights?"

"Yes, my lady. Thousands of them."

"I will speak with Lord Manderly about it. I would have them burned."

Brienne hesitated and glanced at the maester. "My lady, Lord Manderly—he did not survive the night."

Sansa looked to the maester who nodded sadly, "The Manderlys' quarters were nearest the point of entry for the dead, Lady Stark."

Sansa looked pale, "What, all of them? The whole family is—is gone?"

Maester Weston looked up at Sansa as he held a small chalice out for her to drink, "Yes, my lady."

The old man's grief was obvious, and Sansa did not press further, but she took his hand in hers and squeezed it gently.

"I'm so sorry, maester."

Maester Weston patted her hand and smiled sorrowfully. "I am grateful we did not lose you as well, my lady. I was very concerned for some time." He glanced at Sandor and raised his eyebrows, "You were very wise in your choice of shields, Lady Stark. Clegane undoubtedly saved your life. And probably more than once last night."

Sansa glanced at Sandor and he stood up straighter, trying to ignore the compliment and how Sansa was looking at him.

Brienne spoke again, "My lady, there was a raven. From Winterfell." She extended her hand which held a small scroll. "As you instructed me to do, I opened it while you were still unconscious, in case it contained urgent information."

Sansa sat up straighter and held out her hand impatiently, "Let me see it," she said tensely.

Brienne handed her the small bit of parchment and Sansa scanned it quickly before looking back up at her shield in astonishment. The woman smiled and nodded in return while Sansa turned to Sandor.

"They've defeated the Night King. That's why—," Sansa looked to the maester and continued hurriedly. "Samwell writes that Bran was unaware that the Night King had sent some of his army to intercept us, else they'd have warned us." She continued scanning the page as she spoke, "They hope we are well…Brienne, has this been answered yet?"

"Yes, my lady," Brienne responded quickly. "We didn't know how long you would be indisposed, and I did not wish your family to be concerned. We sent a reply a few hours ago."

She nodded with satisfaction. "You were right to do so, thank you, Brienne." She paused and looked at Sandor briefly and then the maester. "I wonder what this means for us…are we to still continue to Meereen now that the army of the dead have been defeated?"

"If you will allow me to say so, my lady, it may yet be the best course of action," Maester Weston advised calmly. "Queen Cersei still rules in King's Landing and there will undoubtedly be more war. Our city sits directly at the middle ground for troops and ships, and the people who have come with you are not safe here."

Sansa frowned and persisted stubbornly, "Perhaps not, but why can we not return North? Now that the threat has been removed, the North would certainly be safer than a city half a world away, with only the Dragon Queen's assurances of our welcome."

The old maester shrugged and folded his hands in front of him as he stood up, finally done with his ministrations. "Perhaps. These are questions which must be posed to his Grace, the King in the North."

She raised an eyebrow at the maester and responded dryly, "Has White Harbor not accepted Daenerys as their Queen either?" She chuckled.

The maester hesitated, "We will follow Daenerys Targaryen so long as our King swears his allegiance to her, and no longer. Our loyalty is and has always been to the Starks."

Sansa smiled, "I suppose news doesn't travel as fast as I guessed that it would. Or perhaps the Dragon Queen would like to keep it under wraps for as long as possible, it would be very like her." She nodded to her sworn shield, "Brienne, be so kind as to fill in Maester Weston on Jon's true identity. And when you are through, Maester, I should like to send a raven. Now please leave me, I have many things to think on."

* * *

-Sandor-

Sandor arose several hours before dawn and dressed himself. He would be early for his shift, but his sleep schedule had been disrupted due to the events of the night before, and he would rather be useful than lie awake in bed for hours.

Sansa had complained that she no longer needed guarding night and day, with the castle now to themselves and the threat of the Night King removed, but both Sandor and Brienne had found themselves in agreement for the first time, insisting on their maintaining a constant watch over her. Cersei would be tracking their caravan's movements, and they could never know if a disgruntled castle cook, a shy handmaiden, or a greedy stable boy maintained hidden loyalties to the Queen. Cersei had always wanted Sansa's life, and that had not changed with the arrival of the Dragon Queen and the army of the dead. If the opportunity arose in which vengeance could be exacted upon Sansa, simultaneously delivering a blow to Jon and the entire Stark-supporting North, Cersei would take it in a heartbeat.

As he strode through the dark hallways of the castle toward her chambers, shrouded in silence except for the resonation of his heavy footsteps throughout the corridor, Sandor's thoughts traveled back to last night once again. He had relived the passionate encounter he'd shared with Lady Stark already multiple times, and yet his disbelief of its actual occurrence remained. He was still astonished that Sansa had not only _asked_ him to kiss her but had actually thrown herself at him with abandon and an urgency that had tasted remarkably of lust. He'd suspected an attraction from her, certainly, but that reaction had been far more satisfying and generous than he'd even allowed himself to hope for.

He snorted with amusement in recollection of her flaming cheeks and the furious glare she'd given him after striking him that morning. He didn't blame her for the reaction; he'd already felt uneasy about what he could say to her that would help her to feel less alarmed upon awakening and finding them lying in such an intimate position. But it could not have been helped. He knew as well as she did that his body's warmth against hers had been a critical component in her recovery.

Still, he could empathize with the shock and confusion she must have felt upon awakening, having no recollection of the previous events which had brought them into each other's arms, lying beneath a blanket before the fire. It amused him to imagine what had passed through her mind in that moment. She had feared that he'd had his way with her, and as such, responded as any woman might have upon finding herself in such a position. He could not believe, after being on the receiving end of her almost ravenous desire last night, that she would have been opposed to their furthered intimacy, but in a case like this, context was everything. It would be one thing to give herself to him willingly, but it was an entirely different thing to believe she'd been taken advantage of without her knowledge or consent. He pitied her for the moment of panic and anger she'd experienced, yet he could not think on the exchange without a self-satisfied grin creeping up his jaw. He'd been vindicated—in a heroic context, no less—and watching the realization settle upon her flushed cheeks that he'd in fact saved her life and not violated her had been a moment that had only further endeared her to him, despite the angry red mark she'd left upon the only good cheek he had.

Brienne met his unanticipated approach with a look of mild surprise but did not object to being relieved early. The last twenty-four hours had been an exhausting stretch for everyone, and she nodded her thanks solemnly to him as she left her post.

Sandor had scarcely seated himself upon the stool when he began to hear movement in the room behind him. Within a minute or two, the sound of the latch opening heralded the appearance of Sansa, framed in the doorway of her darkened room, and fully dressed as if to leave the castle.

He raised a brow at her appearance, but she did not leave him long in suspense.

"Hello Clegane." She spoke softly, a teasing smile pulling at the corners of her lovely mouth. "How is it that I always find you on duty on mornings when I seek the godswood?" She turned and pulled the door closed softly behind her, the flickering light of the sconce casting varied hues of bronze and gold upon the curves and undulations of her thick hair which tumbled loosely down her back. "I hope you don't mind," she finished, flicking her eyes coyly to meet his.

Her tone was almost demure, mirroring the timidity she'd shown him that morning. It was so unlike the strong and sometimes frigid demeanor that he'd come to expect from her, and he could only attribute their recent intimacy as being the catalyst for this sudden change in her behavior.

Despite the feelings she aroused in him, Sandor snickered at her politeness, ever a slave to his own coarse, surly nature.

"You realize how early it is? Dawn won't come for two hours yet, at least."

Sansa nodded, adjusting her cloak about her shoulders before starting down the corridor apace with him. This was also a change. Instead of assuming her usual position in front of him, she'd held back, choosing instead to walk beside him.

"Yes. I couldn't sleep any longer, I'd slept so much of the day already." She glanced up at him, her features either starkly shadowed or illuminated with each subtle movement of her head by the dim glow of the occasional lantern in the hall. "You arrived to post early. I suppose you could not sleep either?"

Sandor shook his head. "No. After this morning, might be I've spoiled my taste for sleeping alone."

He chuckled at his own joke, aware but uncaring of the boldness of it. From his position beside her, he was unable to see her response clearly, but guessed that her cheeks had flushed pink and she'd cast her head down. Sandor had never been a man to falsify appearances or to behave in a way that was contrary to reality. The reality was that they had been very intimate with one another within the last twenty-four hours, and those moments of intimacy had changed everything about their relationship. They were no longer just sworn shield and mistress. They had complicated things, in the most exquisite manner, and nothing would be the same between them.

After continuing on in silence for a moment, Sansa drew in a deep breath and replied in a softened tone.

"I'm sorry that I struck you this morning."

He pushed open the heavy door which led toward the gardens and beyond them, the godswood. Pausing, he allowed Sansa to step past him.

"It's nothing I wasn't expecting," Sandor chuckled sardonically.

Sansa stopped in the doorway and turned to him, laying her hand upon his forearm and trapping his gaze in the sincere pools of her sapphire eyes.

"No, please. Let me apologize for this. You didn't deserve that kind of hasty judgement." Her eyes searched his for a moment and her brow furrowed in a wordless display of emotion. "You saved my life—twice—and I am indebted to you for that."

A slight lift of one of her brows gave a subtle meaning to her statement which he wasn't sure was intentional or imagined, but she broke contact before he could pursue the answer. They continued silently through the gardens in the direction of the godswood, led by the hazy glow of the moon and a few lighted torches along the castle's outer wall while Sandor pondered the intent behind Sansa's words and the gentle way in which she'd touched him.

When they reached the heart tree, Sandor hung back, allowing Sansa the privacy which was due for worship. He was uncertain how religious she still was, but it was clear that she yet visited the godswood, at the very least, for her own comfort and peace of mind. After the events of last night, she might be saying a prayer for the lives that were lost or thanking the gods for sparing her own. Either way, she spent several minutes standing before the weirwood silently, hands clasped before her.

As he quietly observed her, he became consumed by the memory of the iron fist which had taken hold of his heart during the long moments when he'd almost lost her—when his hand had closed around her cloak beneath the dark waves and pulled her lifeless body from the sea. Auburn hair had been plastered to her white brow, yet somehow, she had been as beautiful while lying upon death's threshold as ever she'd been in life.

He'd choked, standing frozen in a deeply despairing silence, only managing to admire her breathtaking loveliness as she lay helpless upon the sodden planks of the barge, limp and cold before him. It was Bronn who'd shoved him aside, beating the girl's chest until she'd vomited up half of the sea. Brienne who had sought to strip her of her clothing to increase her chances of surviving the cold. He had only stood and stared, succumbed to the despair, waiting for the pain to be complete. He would lose her, just like he'd lost everyone.

But there had been a moment before she'd grown groggy and delirious, a moment after Brienne had wrung her hair out and covered her in the driest bits of clothing she could find. Sansa had lifted her head weakly and looked about her. She had tried to speak but the words had been swallowed in a fit of coughing.

"What is it, my lady?" Brienne had implored, stroking the wet hair back from Sansa's pale face and rubbing her shoulder vigorously to encourage warmth and circulation back into her blood.

Sansa had searched the faces of her companions, the movements of her head sluggish and feeble, but they'd stopped only when her eyes had rested upon him. Her pale hand had reached, employing the last ounce of strength left in her body in the attempt. Reached for him.

"Sandor…," she'd pleaded weakly.

He'd hastened to take the trembling hand in his and had not left her side again the entire night. That one word had changed everything for him. Sansa had changed everything for him.

As if on cue, like some enchantress from another realm who could delve into his mind, reading and manipulating its contents, Sansa turned in that very moment and caught his gaze. She smiled and he took the cue to come nearer.

"Whom do you pray to, Clegane?" she posed gently, gazing steadily ahead at the carved face of her deity. "Did the septon friend that you lost renew your faith in any gods?"

He snorted disdainfully, "Do you mean the gods who watched as he and the rest of his followers were slaughtered? No, I don't believe in the Seven…"

Sansa caught the hesitation in his reply and looked up at him, "But perhaps you believe in something else?"

He stared at the carved face of the weirwood with its eyes dripping blood and its gaping mouth, looking more ominous than usual in the darkness of the wood around them.

"Don't know. I saw something in the flames when I was with the fire-worshippers. Can't explain it." He looked down at her and a faint smile stretched across his face, "And your old gods spared your life. Might be that's just coincidence, but then there's your brother too, the three-eyed-raven." He shook his head, "I don't know what I believe in. Magic. Dragons." He shrugged, "Who knows?"

She looked up at him and smiled almost sadly. For a long moment she seemed to be studying him, thinking deeply on what she wanted to say. With a squint of her eyes and slight pursing of her lips, she finally replied.

"The last time we were in the godswood together, you promised me something."

 _Ah, fuck._

She took a few steps toward an ornate bench and seated herself, placing one hand on the empty place beside her and beckoning him with a playful, yet unmistakable look of determination upon her countenance to draw whatever information she wanted from him.

With a groan, Sandor raked a hand through the hair on the back of his head.

"Aye. The night you 'didn't remember,'" he responded with mild irritation.

She sighed. "I'm sorry for _that_ too. I was—embarrassed at my behavior. I just wanted to forget the whole thing had even happened." She picked at a seam on her sleeve in the semi-darkness as he took a few steps nearer.

"Well, since we're remembering everything now," he responded dryly while standing over her, "you'll remember the terms of that promise." Seating himself beside her, he reached for her arm, "You were supposed to tell me the origin of this scar."

As he spoke, he lifted her hand and flipped it, running his thumb along the ridge of the raised, pink flesh that traveled vertically up her arm before disappearing beneath her sleeve. He paused there, catching her gaze beyond their linked hands and reveling in the warmth of her skin, the delicacy of the wrist weighting his hand, a wrist that was scarcely larger than a child's.

She held his gaze for a long moment before finally replying.

"I do remember," Sansa murmured, breaking eye contact to gaze down at the scar with a heavy sigh. "You asked if it was me or Ramsay who did this. The answer is both."

Sandor released her hand and leaned back, waiting for her to expound.

She pulled at the laces of her sleeve, working slowly at the fine fabric which she'd undoubtedly sewn herself, until she'd exposed the creamy skin of her forearm, from the wrist to near her elbow. The scar traveled almost the entire length.

"Ramsay enjoyed playing his sick games. On this night he wanted me to beg for death." She stared beyond Sandor with a glazed look in her eyes. "I won't tell you what he was doing to me that brought me to that point."

Sandor clenched his jaw, rage building inside of him for the monster that had tortured _his_ little bird. Blinking rapidly out of her thoughts, Sansa inhaled deeply and looked back down at her arm, continuing her story matter-of-factly.

"When I finally did beg to die, he told me he'd help me achieve it, but that I must hold still. I tried." She winced and wouldn't meet his gaze. "Ramsay didn't cut along the vein. Intentionally. He blamed me for it, said I hadn't held still enough for him and that death would have to wait until after I'd birthed him an heir. Of course, that had been his plan all along." She smiled coldly and began pulling the laces tight, concealing once more the evidence of Ramsay Bolton's abuse.

Sandor watched in silence as he considered the degree of mind-numbing sadism that could cause someone to behave so diabolically to an innocent young woman.

"And I thought Joffrey was fucked up," he grunted bitterly. "Wish I could've gutted that bastard."

She smiled almost shyly at his protective response, "Well perhaps you did. Metaphorically speaking."

He offered only a blank stare and Sansa rolled her eyes playfully.

"Hounds? Oh, never mind." The gentle laugh combined with the dismissive wave of her hand was exactly the kind of reaction he'd played dumb for. Sansa's personality had thoroughly captivated him, and he still took pleasure in provoking her. He chuckled while she rearranged herself in her seat before turning to him with a brow raised.

"And now it's your turn."

Sandor groaned and leaned as far back against the bench as possible. "Ugh. What exactly did I promise you?"

She made a face. "You said that if I told you how I got this scar, you would tell me why you didn't kill me the night of the Blackwater."

Sandor scoffed and leaned his forearms onto his knees, "I wouldn't have killed you, Sansa."

"Raped then. You were so—"

His head came up to glare at her.

"—angry." She finished timidly, and he gave a heavy sigh.

"I don't know that I'd have raped you either. I wanted you, aye," he glanced sideways at her and Sansa blushed, fidgeting with her skirt self-consciously. "And I was angry because you were acting like a fool and Joffrey was a cunt and the whole bloody city was on fire. Always gotta be fire…," Sandor growled. "I just wanted to take something that I wanted for once in my shit life and not have to give a damn."

Sansa pushed herself to her feet and moved slowly toward the manicured evergreen shrub in front of them, thinking on his response. She cracked a small branch off and began picking the needles from it absently. When she spoke again, she did not look at him.

"So why didn't you?"

There was only silence for some time save the intermittent crackling of Sansa's branch and the soft rush of the breeze as it passed through the canopy overhead. When Sandor finally spoke, his voice was low and grave.

"I told you about my brother once. About the scars he gave me," he paused to look up at Sansa, and chuckled darkly. "Bloody hells, I used to frighten you then."

Sansa looked over her shoulder and gave him a reluctant smile, "Everything frightened me then, Sandor."

She turned away again, still picking absently at her branch, but he studied her profile fixedly as a deep gratification swelled in his chest. He wondered if he'd ever stop feeling the thrill that rushed through him whenever his given name passed her lips—whenever it was pronounced by the sweetest voice who'd ever spoken it.

"Aye," a nostalgic smile accompanied the short, breathy chuckle that he exhaled through his nose. He leaned onto his forearms again and stared down at his boots before continuing.

"Gregor wasn't my only sibling. I had a sister too."

Sansa's fidgeting stopped abruptly, and she turned to him in surprise. He did not seek her face, keeping his head down, but a small branch, stripped of most of its needles fell into the snow by her feet.

"Elynor. She was four years older than me. Two years younger than Gregor. And I was the baby." He snorted at how ridiculous that sounded. "Our mother fell ill and died when I was still young, five maybe. Elynor became like a mother to me."

Sandor straightened and met Sansa's shocked, sympathetic gaze with his own rueful one. He smiled wistfully.

"I hate that I can't even remember her face anymore. But I still hear her voice sometimes in my head. Elynor had a sweet voice. Like yours," another melancholy smile. "After my mother died, she would sing to me, the same song that had been sung to me since I was a babe in arms."

Sansa's expression had become so filled with empathy and astonishment that Sandor began to feel uncomfortable. There was something else, too, written upon her countenance as she slowly drew nearer to him, some other emotion that he couldn't quite define. He cleared his throat and attempted to focus only on his retelling.

"My mother was very pious," he continued, "loved the bloody Seven, though they didn't do a damn thing for her when she was wasting away in her deathbed." He looked down again, studying the edges of a leaf which danced in the breeze between his feet. "You were supposed to sing about Florian and Jonquil or some other shite." He crushed the leaf under his boot.

"But I didn't," Sansa breathed softly as she stood before him, a sudden understanding in the tone of her lowered voice. "I couldn't think of anything to sing; I was so frightened. I only remembered the Mother's hymn—they'd been singing it all evening in the Sept of Baelor. That—," she paused and drew in a shaky breath, "that was the song your mother sang to you."

"Aye, the Mother's hymn. Always had a way of calming me." He looked down and picked at a callus on his palm. "You sang that song like a frightened little bird and all I could think of was how ashamed my mother and sister would be of the monster I'd become. I've never hated myself more than I did in that moment. Threatening a helpless girl." He barked out a cold laugh to mask the deeper, more anguished emotion he felt. "I had become my brother," he finished bitterly.

"No! No, you're nothing like him," Sansa insisted fervently, crouching down before him and taking up his hand between hers as she searched his face earnestly.

Her sweetness shocked Sandor into silence. There was only sincerity and true concern etched into her delicate features, softly outlined as they were in the moonlight, without a trace of sarcasm or mockery. A waver of emotion had thickened her voice, and the warmth of her small hands radiated into his own as she clutched them tightly, stroking his skin with her thumb ever so slightly.

How could he, scarred and brutish and undeserving as he was, stir the emotion of someone so gentle and perfect as she? In a moment of clarity, unguarded by the walls he kept erected about himself, Sandor reached down to cup her face, drawing the edge of his thumb across her pale cheek.

"Little bird," he whispered hoarsely, "I could never have hurt you."

Sansa drew in a deep breath and held it, brow furrowing with emotion. She stood quickly and turned away from him so that he could not see her countenance, but her body trembled for a few moments, and she drew a hand to her face.

Sandor pushed himself to his feet, hesitated, and then tentatively placed a hand on her shoulder, guiding her to face him. She did turn to him, but kept her arms wrapped tightly about herself, eyes squeezed shut as she inhaled a deep draught of the crisp, predawn air. When they finally opened, her eyes penetrated his, somehow managing to be sad, angry, and confused all at once.

"Why? Why couldn't you ever hurt me? Every other man in the Kingsguard would strike me at Joffrey's command, but you, never. You protected me, you cloaked me, you tried to take me away from all of them. Even last night, you used your own body to warm me—you saved my life, Sandor." She searched his eyes and spoke just over a whisper, "Do you care for me?"

He raised a brow, discomfited by the question. Discussing feelings was complex and aggravating, but his desire for her was a simple truth, one which had been steadily edging to the forefront of his mind ever since he'd first beheld her candle-illuminated figure in the doorway of her chambers. His eyes roved her face and settled hungrily upon the exposed skin of her delicate throat.

"I did my duty…"

She scoffed, "It was more than just duty, Sandor."

She wanted something from him, some admission, some fanciful lover's reply. As if she didn't already know that he cared for her; that she was his entire world. He moved nearer to her, closing the gap between them and pushing a lock of hair over her shoulder, his fingertips grazing her neck.

"Mayhaps it was," he allowed as his eyes consumed her figure, a deep hunger building inside of him. Taking her shoulders in his hands, Sandor slowly brought his lips to her ear, "Or mayhaps I just wanted you for myself."

Sansa's lips parted to allow a ragged intake of breath, head tilting of its own accord to grant his searching lips access to her skin.

"You don't fool me, Sandor," she murmured ardently as his lips connected with the join of her neck and shoulder and she closed her eyes, unable to prevent a gasp from escaping her lips. "You with your gruff responses and supposed indifference." She opened her eyes and attempted to catch his gaze, pulling away momentarily from his caresses, "It is as I said before. You have a soft spot. For me."

He laughed huskily, gripping her upper arm suddenly and pulling her body roughly against his.

"Ain't a damn spot on me that's soft right now for you," he rasped into her ear, gripping the back of her neck and her hip simultaneously with possessive hands. "So, you must be wrong, little bird."

Sansa shuddered audibly, but pressed her hands against his chest, pulling away from him so that she might look him in the eyes once more. "I'm not wrong," she said, more boldly this time. "You're afraid of love, Sandor Clegane."

He clenched his jaw as he gazed bitterly into her deep blue eyes, the lonely anger of so many years surfacing in him in the form of a deep and all-encompassing lust for her. His fist closed around a handful of her thick hair and he pulled it to one side, forcefully exposing the creamy skin of her neck to him once more.

"Still a chirping little bird, is she?" he growled huskily, his mouth grown more insistent as he greedily kissed and sucked at the smooth skin he found there, until he'd succeeded in drawing a moan from between her parted lips. "Still the same dreamy little maiden, obsessed with love and romance?" he mocked. His hands became more demanding, slipping over curves and grasping at places in which she hadn't been touched by another in many, many months.

"No," she shuddered, covering one roaming hand with her own and slipping the other boldly around his neck. "I'm not a maiden, remember?"

He gripped her chin tightly, baring his teeth, "Aye, not a maiden," he agreed resentfully, eyes fixated on her mouth. "So, you'll not be chirping when I fuck you, you'll sing me that pretty little song, won't you?"

Sansa whined desperately, the needs of her flesh giving way finally to his insistence and she melted into him. Everything became a blur of hands and lips as they embraced with a passion and ferocity fueled by many years' suppressed desire finally given release.

"Someone will see us," Sansa gasped in the small space of time in which their lips were not joined, and her back hit the trunk of the weirwood forcefully.

"Let them see," Sandor responded hoarsely, wrapping one hand around her slender throat and tilting her face up to meet his hungry mouth. He kissed her insistently, his tongue demanding what his body craved from her, and all that mattered was how quickly he could make her his own. His fingers tore feverishly at the laces on her gown.

Sansa withdrew from their embrace gasping for breath, yet desperate for more of him. She clawed at the clasps of his jerkin to gain access to the powerful chest she'd glimpsed that morning, but Sandor was interested only in claiming her. He pushed her hands aside to work at her bodice again, his veins coursing with a desperate need for her that was stronger than reason. He could not taste her quickly enough, could not fully revel in every curve of her figure beneath his hands while the urge persisted. He would have her now and would take her against the tree if he must.

"I don't—gods—I don't know how far we should take this, Sandor," she moaned as his hand plunged into her dress and engulfed one full breast. Her mouth fell open, breath hitched loudly in her throat as he urgently kneaded and caressed her tender flesh, all his movements fueled by an undercurrent of ravenous, maddening desire.

"Bloody hells," he laughed mockingly against her throat, "You're the Lady of Winterfell, Sansa, you can take this wherever the fuck you want." His lips found hers again and she moaned agonizingly into his mouth.

With her breasts freed from their coverings, Sandor drew back to behold their beauty. He pushed the stray tresses of auburn hair behind her shoulders, a deep shade of lust darkening his gray eyes.

"Fuck, you've the prettiest teats in the seven kingdoms, girl," Sandor groaned, stroking a calloused thumb over one perfect, erect nipple which tightened further at his touch. Sansa gasped and he succumbed to the insistent desire to taste her there, guiding the supple fullness into his mouth and sucking gently. A deeper and more impassioned moan escaped her throat, but Sandor was nearly brought to his knees in the next instant when, without warning, her hand slipped into his breeches and grasped ahold of his cock tightly.

"I'm not a girl, Sandor," she whispered between clenched teeth as she unabashedly stroked the length of him. Releasing her nipple, Sandor groaned against her collarbone, willing greater strength into her hand so that she might grasp him more tightly. He needed more.

"Fucking hells," he murmured hoarsely, withdrawing from her embrace momentarily to catch his breath and regain his footing. She looked like a goddess of the North, her red hair contrasting against the white bark of the weirwood and the white skin of her bare breasts and neck. He didn't need a bed, didn't need sheets or furs, he just needed to be inside of her, and he needed it now. He fisted her skirts roughly, shoving them up to her waist and drawing his hand up her inner thigh where he was met, not with the silken smallclothes he'd expected to find, but with the soft tuft of hair which protected her sweet, wet warmth beneath it.

"Oh fuck," he groaned desperately. "Why the fuck aren't you wearing smallclothes, you vixen?" Gripping her face, he tilted it up to his while he invaded her slick folds.

Sansa gasped for breath between his lustful kisses and withdrew her hand from his breeches. Leaning her head back, she arched her body against the tree and spread her legs further for him, moaning wantonly when his finger roughly entered her.

"I—ah—gods! I hoped—you would take me," she whined, hands reaching over her head and clawing at the bark, grasping for purchase as his finger curled inside her, reaching places that were primed and desperate for his touch. The pressure was exquisite, maddening. Intoxicating.

Her admission of lascivious intent went straight to his brain and sent him over the edge. With a feverish growl he jerked the remaining fabric aside that still separated their intimate places. Hoisting her against the tree, he released his aching cock from his breeches and positioned himself to enter her. Sansa's mouth hung open, gasping as he shifted her weight with his powerful arms and spread her legs around his hips. A sharp, high-pitched inhalation of breath that was nearly a whine filled his ears when he pushed the throbbing head of his cock against her slick entrance, so sweetly prepared to accommodate him.

"Is that so?" he growled, the veins on his neck bulging with his restraint, his hand squeezing her breast roughly. "Did proper little Sansa Stark want to be fucked out here in the godswood?" he sneered lecherously.

Pausing for the briefest instant, Sandor caught her gaze and held it, teeth bared, eyes hooded with lust. Then he sheathed himself fully in her, filling her completely in one fierce, satisfying thrust.

Sansa cried out, her nails digging into the skin of his neck and shoulders while she clung to him tightly. His forehead pressed against hers as he drew out of her slowly only to fill her again immediately, her muscles contracting around him as she stretched to accommodate him. And each movement he made was punctuated by Sansa's unchaste gasps of erotic pleasure.

"Fucked by the Hound," he groaned. He kissed her roughly, pushing as far into her as was physically possible and when his groin had met hers, he shoved a half-inch further, until he felt that he'd truly claimed all of her.

"This what you wanted, little bird?" He lowered his face into the crook of her neck and began to take her roughly.

"Oh, gods, yes!" she moaned, legs spread wide around his hips as he shoved her against the tree repeatedly with each thrust, one arm wrapped around her back and the other gripping the outside of her thigh tightly. There would be no gentle prepping, no priming and petting, for she'd gradually built a fire of lust within him which had peaked when he'd found her half-naked and desirous of him. There would be no going back; Sandor had been good for far too long.

He withdrew his forehead from her shoulder, looking to her face for her reaction to their indecent coupling, but her eyes were closed, head thrown back in ecstasy, hair caught on the edges of weirwood bark and tousled over her shoulders and bare breasts. She clung to him, moaning softly; Sansa Stark in his arms, with his cock buried deep inside of her.

He would reach completion faster than he'd ever had in his life like this, cradling this exquisite prize and thrusting into her warm and ready cunt like there would never be another chance to claim her. She'd wanted it as desperately as he had, and he had taken her where she stood. Each time his cock slid roughly into her warm depths, she moaned sweetly, singing for him the pretty little song he'd wanted to coax from her for years.

His peak came strong and sudden upon him, white light and heat streaking from his every extremity to gather at his core in the most exquisite explosion of ecstasy that he'd ever known. Groaning loudly against her heaving, white throat, Sandor shoved himself as deeply inside of her as he could with his release, clenching her thigh so tightly that a bruise marking his misdeeds upon it would be inevitable. She panted and whined, clutching at his shoulders with her nails and passing her lips possessively along his neck until his movements finally slowed, and she relaxed into him.

In the wake of his feverish possession of her, his need now temporarily sated, he drew back to look into her face. He knew she hadn't reached her own peak and he felt a twinge of remorse for his selfishness and lust.

"I'm sorry, little bird" he panted, chuckling weakly as he stared down at her loose breasts and hiked up skirts, with his softly pulsing manhood still inside of her. "I should have waited for your fancy bed and done this proper."

She smiled coyly and shook her head, kissing him once more upon the lips before he pulled out of her and lowered her back to the earth. Her gaze followed his hands as he returned his cock to his breeches and tied them, while she began to pull her dress back up over her breasts and set her appearance back in order.

"If I'd wanted you in my bed, I wouldn't have come to the godswood," she admitted softly.

Sandor reached for his discarded weapons belt with a raised brow at her.

"So you don't want me in your bed, is what you're saying?"

Biting her lip, Sansa eyed him up and down as she pulled the laces on her bodice tight, her gaze settling upon his still prominent manhood which strained against his breeches.

"No, that's not what I'm saying, Sandor."

He reached for her tousled head and pulled her into one last erotic kiss, slow and sensual. When their mouths parted, he ran his thumb over her moistened lower lip and squeezed her bottom tightly with a roguish grin.

"Good. I don't fancy being slapped again."


End file.
